“The Khedive. The Government. The University. His father. The owner of the cafe. He’s anti most things.”
“Pro anything?”
“Pro the big ideals,” said Georgiades. “Like, me. Including Pan-Islam. Unlike me.”
“Religious, then?”
Georgiades shook his head.
“Come on!” said Owen. “He’s got to be if he’s Pan-Islam!”
“The boy’s confused.”
“How can you be secular and Pan-Islam?”
“I told you, the boy’s position is unique.”
“What the hell!”
“He has a vision,” said Georgiades, “of a worldwide brotherhood of Arab Nationalists. Big, like I said. Only misty.” “Anyone else share this vision?”
“Only me,” said Georgiades. “He couldn’t persuade the others in the cafe.”
Big, sympathetic brown eyes met Owen’s. Georgiades was a marvellous listener. People would tell him anything: their troubles, their hopes, their dreams, their worries; the difficulties they had at work, the problems they had with wife, husband, parents, children. Out it would all come pouring. It was one of the things that made him such a good agent.
“Adopting for the moment a more limited perspective,” said Owen, “who does he tie up with? Not el Gazzari, evidently. Jemal?”
“Not Jemal either. He’s quarrelled with Jemal. He did offer Jemal his services but Jemal made some unflattering remark. About rich landlords’ sons, I believe.”
“His father is a rich landlord,” said Owen. “Is he a rich son?”
“I don’t think he has much money,” said Georgiades. “Nuri keeps him on a tight rein. He doesn’t trust him.”
“I’ll bet that helps their relationship.”
Owen thought for a moment.
“All the same,” he said, “Nuri keeps him on as his secretary.”
“In a funny way,” said Georgiades, “I think he loves him. Anyway,” he added, “the secretarying is pretty nominal.”
The room was dark and cool. Heavy slatted wooden shutters kept light and heat out. They were opened only in the evening when the air had become cooler.
“Nuri loves him,” Owen said. "Does he love Nuri, though?” “Not according to Nuri.”
"But according to Ahmed?”
“Well,” said Georgiades, “the boy is misunderstood.”
“Really he loves his father?”
"Sure,” said Georgiades, “and hates him.”
He eased himself back on his chair to free his trousers, which were sticking to the seat.
"But not enough to kill him,” he said, “if that’s what you were thinking. He’s not the sort.”
“That’s what his sister said. Half-sister.”
“ You been doing research into the family, too? Well, that’s right. He hasn’t got the steel.”
"The job was bungled,” said Owen.
“That raises the question,” said Georgiades, “of what the job was.” Their eyes met.
“True,” said Owen. “Interesting.”
Nikos stuck his head into the room.
“Have you shown it him yet?”
“What?”
Georgiades took a scrumpled piece of paper out of his pocket and put it on the desk in front of Owen. It was a handbill such as are given out at political meetings. It was in Arabic and the heading, printed bold at both the top and the bottom of the page, was Death TO THE Sirdar.
“He was giving these out to students at the law school yesterday,” said Georgiades. “He had a couple of hundred of them.”
“Did you take them off him?”
“Just the one. Do you want me to anything about the others?” “Too late now,” said Nikos. “You should have taken them all while you were at it.”
“But that would have given me away,” protested Georgiades. “He thinks I’m a supporter. The only one.”
Nikos sniffed. “They’ll be all over the law school by now.” “You’d be surprised at the indifference of people,” Georgiades said. “Business was not exactly brisk. If you want me to-” he said, turning to Owen.
“No. It’s not worth bothering.”
Owen picked up the handbill and examined it. Seditious leaflets were as common in Cairo as pornographic postcards. It was impossible to control them all and Owen usually contented himself with confiscating a sample and destroying the printer’s type. In the case of leaflets considered inflammatory, however, the working rule was to suppress the run completely. There was not much doubt that this one was inflammatory, but if it had already been distributed it was too late. “Have you come across any more of these?” he asked.
“No.”
“It’s funny no one else is distributing them,” said Nikos.
“Perhaps he’s the only one dumb enough?” suggested Georgiades. “That might mean the printer’s not got a proper distribution system set up yet,” said Nikos, disregarding him. He took the handbill from Owen. “I don’t recognize the printer,” he said. “Do you?” he asked Georgiades.
Georgiades shook his head. “He’s new.”
“That fits,” said Nikos.
“How did he get in touch with Ahmed?” asked Owen.
“Or Ahmed with him,” said Georgiades. “An interesting question.” He looked at Owen. “Want me to find who printed this?” “Yes,” said Owen, “and when you do find him, don’t do anything.” “You don’t want me to call on him?” asked Georgiades, surprised. “Not immediately. Not yet. Put a man on him. Not too obviously.” He could easily accommodate it within his budget. In Cairo it was the bribes that were expensive. The men came cheap.
Georgiades and Nikos had hardly left when Nikos was back on the phone.
“I’ve got a call for you,” he said. “Guzman. He wants to talk to you about thefts from Army barracks.”
He cackled loudly and put Guzman through.
“What is this I hear about dangerous lapses in military security?” said the harsh voice.
“I don’t know what you hear,” said Owen. “Do tell me.”
“Your memo to the British Agent-”
“I didn’t know you were on the circulation list,” said Owen.
“You should have put me on,” said Guzman. “The Khedive is interested.”
“Purely internal matter,” said Owen smoothly.
“Internal? Where threats to security are concerned? Perhaps to the Khedive himself? You yourself speak of risk to important people.” “Not the Khedive, surely?”
He wondered how Guzman had got hold of the memo. By the same means as Owen got hold of the Khedive’s internal memos, he supposed. Still, it was disquieting.
“What are you doing about it?” asked Guzman.
“Setting up appropriate liaison machinery, reviewing existing security arrangements, replacing where appropriate by new ones-that sort of thing,” said Owen.
“About time, too!” snapped the Turk.
“That is, of course, what the memo argues.”
“But you are responsible for security.”
“Oh no,” said Owen. “Not military security. I suggest you talk to the Sirdar.”
And he’ll bloody sort you out, he said under his breath.
“I shall,” said Guzman. “Meanwhile, how are you getting on with your own investigations?”
“Fine,” said Owen. “Fine, thanks.”
“Have you arrested the murderers yet?” “What murderers did you have in mind?” asked Owen.
“The Nuri murderers. That is your responsibility, isn’t it?” the Turk added sarcastically.
“Afraid not. The Parquet. The police,” Owen said airily.
“And Security?”
“There are, indeed, security aspects,” said Owen. “I’m looking into those. Hence my memo.”
There was a silence at the other end of the phone. Owen wondered whether Guzman had rung off. He was about to put the phone down when the Turk spoke again.
“The Khedive would appreciate more cooperation from the Mamur Zapt.”
Owen took that, correctly, for a threat.
“You can assure the Khedive of our fullest cooperation,” he said heartily.
Again there was a pause.
“I have not had your report yet,” said Guzman.
“That’s strange!” said Owen. “I sent it off.”
“To me?”
“Of course. Perhaps it’s stuck in your front office?”
“Or yours. Or perhaps you haven’t written it.”
“Oh no,” said Owen. “I have certainly written it. I think.”