“It begins to look like that.”
They walked a little way in silence.
Then Mahmoud said: “I must say, I am a little surprised.”
Owen told him what Georgiades had found out about Nuri’s son and secretary. Mahmoud listened with interest.
“It fits together,” he said. “Mustafa and the Nationalists, Mustafa and Ahmed. Ahmed and the extremists among the Nationalists, if that leaflet really means anything. Those most likely to want to kill Nuri.” Which made it all the more surprising the next day when one of Owen’s men reported that Nuri and Ahmed had been seen visiting al Liwa’s offices: together.
CHAPTER 7
“It’s got to be protection,” said Georgiades and Nikos together. “He’s a rich man,” said Georgiades.
“A natural target,” Nikos concurred.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if several of the clubs were on to him,” said Georgiades.
“They are,” said Owen. “I’ve seen their letters.”
“There you are, then.”
“And checked them out.”
“You got nothing?”
“Nothing.”
“Did you check the right ones?” asked Georgiades.
“I checked the ones I was given,” said Owen, and stopped. “Given by Nuri’s secretary,” he said. “Ahmed.”
“Yes,” said Nikos, “well…”
“It wouldn’t have made any difference,” said Georgiades. “He wouldn’t have given it you, anyway. And, sure as hell, he won’t give it to you now.”
“Nuri must know,” said Owen.
“Do you think he would tell, though?”
“He told me about the other ones.”
“Did he?” asked Nikos.
Owen shrugged. “He made no difficulty about showing me the letters.”
“Some of them.”
“Did he tell you whether he’d paid them off?” asked Georgiades. “No,” said Owen. “He rather gave me the impression he disregarded them.”
“He would,” said Nikos.
“Do you think he pays?”
“Of course,” said Nikos.
“Invariably,” said Georgiades.
“Everybody does,” said Nikos.
“Then why did they try to kill him?”
“Did they try to kill him?” asked Georgiades.
Owen looked at him. “Are you suggesting they didn’t?” Georgiades spread his hands.
“Try this,” he said, “for size. He didn’t respond at once. So they tried to frighten him.”
“Mustafa tried to kill him.”
“It went wrong,” said Georgiades.
“Why did it go wrong?” asked Nikos.
“Because they used that moron Ahmed as a go-between. He set it up wrongly.”
“Ahmed would try to extort money from his own father?” asked Owen.
Georgiades spread his hands again, palms up, open as the Cairo day. “Why not?” he said. “Better than trying to kill him.”
Owen frowned. “It makes sense,” he said. “Some sense. Neither you nor Zeinab thought he was of the stuff that killers are made of.” “Who is this Zeinab?” asked Nikos.
“A girl,” Georgiades told him. “He’s been doing some research of his own.”
“He’s been writing some memos of his own, too,” said Nikos, still unforgiving.
“But there remains the difficulty,” said Owen, disregarding them, “that the societies, or most of them, are professional and Ahmed is a bungling amateur. Why does a professional use an amateur?” “Because he’s Nuri’s son?” offered Nikos.
“I still don’t see-”
“It adds to the pleasure,” said Nikos. “Their pleasure. To use the son against the father,” he explained patiently.
“Now you’ve shocked him, ” said Georgiades to Nikos. “Anyway, I can think of another explanation.”
“What’s that?”
“They wanted to give him something to do. Always hanging around. Get him out of their hair.”
“I prefer that explanation,” Owen said to Nikos.
Nikos smiled, worldly-wise.
“We’re still left with the old question, though,” said Owen. “Who’s ‘they’?”
“We know the answer now, don’t we?” asked Georgiades.
“Do we?”
“The ones Nuri and Ahmed went to see at al Liwa. ”
But that was strange. For the person Nuri and Ahmed had talked to at al Liwa, they later learned from their agent, was Abdul Murr.
Much to Owen’s surprise, for he had neither expected nor intended the memo to have such an effect, there were three other responses besides Guzman’s to the memo that day.
The next came at lunch-time. Owen had gone as usual to the club and as he was going in to the dining-room someone hailed him through the open door of the bar.
It was one of the Consul-General’s bright young men, a personal friend.
“Hello, Gareth,” he said. “Can I catch you for a minute?”
He led Owen out on to the verandah and they sat down at a table where they were unlikely to be disturbed.
“It’s about that memo of yours,” he said, “the one about lapses in military security.”
“Look, Paul-” Owen began hastily.
“The Old Man’s concerned. He had the SPG in first thing this morning. Told him a thing or two. And not before time, I must say! The Army behaves as if it’s on a bloody island of its own. Has its own procedures, won’t talk to anyone else, won’t even listen to anyone else. Thinks it knows it all and in reality knows bloody nothing! The Egyptians mightn’t be here at all as far as it’s concerned. And much the same goes for the Civil Branch. We might as well not exist. The Army goes clumping in with its bloody great big boots. Half our time is spent trying to make up for the damage it’s already bloody caused and the other half trying to anticipate what it’s going to cock up next. Liaison-you talk about liaison in your mem-Jesus! they can’t even spell the word!”
“Some of them particularly,” said Owen, pleased.
“You’re dead right! Military Security in particular. Mind you, you get all the dummos in that. A fine pig’s ear they’ve been making of things! Supplying arms and ammunition to half the bloody population. And making a few bob out of it on the side, I’ll bet. Those bloody Army storesmen are about as straight as a corkscrew-an implement with which they are all too familiar.”
“Now, now, Paul,” said Owen. “They drink beer.”
“You’re bloody right they do! No wonder the place is a desert. Anything liquid they bloody consume.”
“The trouble is,” said Owen, “the Sirdar will never do anything.”
“Oh yes he will. This time. The Agent was on to him directly. He’s at risk, too. Great minds think alike for once.”
“You reckon the memo might have some effect?”
“It already has. Sirdar’s already kicked some people up the ass.” “He has?” said Owen happily.
“He certainly has.”
Paul leaned forward and spoke a trifle more quietly but just as vehemently.
“And with bloody good reason,” he said. “Because do you know what came out? The Old Man demanded to know if anything had been stolen recently. The SPG had to tell him. And-can you believe it? It turned out that a box of grenades had vanished from Kantara barracks only last Tuesday! Grenades! A box! Jesus!”
“Kantara?” said Owen. “That’s interesting.”
“Is it? Well, perhaps it is to you. I must say, Gareth, they’re pretty impressed with you. Timely prescience, the Agent called it. Even the Sirdar thought it was damn good intelligence work.”
“Well, there you are,” said Owen modestly.
“But what interests me, ” said Paul, “was that it was a whole bloody box. Could cause absolute havoc if they start chucking a few of those around. And it’s just when we’ve got all the festivals coming up! We’ve got the Carpet next week and the place will be stiff with notables all hanging around for someone to take a pot shot at. Even the Khedive has been persuaded to come to receive the plaudits of his loyal and appreciative subjects. And I’m organizing our side! Christ!” “The Agent?”