At the table next to him two men stood up, shook hands, picked up their decorated leather briefcases and left. They had been discussing a contract for the delivery of sesame. The man remaining turned immediately, greeted some acquaintance at another table, pulled his chair across and lunged into an animated discussion of the merits of some Ghawazee singers at a place near the Clot Bey. So easily did business turn to pleasure. So, too, did it turn to politics. At the table on his other side some young effendi were arguing hotly about Egypt’s place in the world, asking why cultural importance, as evinced by the constant flood of tourists, was not reflected in political significance.
Across the tables he suddenly caught sight of Mahmoud and waved an arm. Mahmoud, however, had already seen him and was weaving his way through the tables to join him.
A relief!‘ he said, dropping into a chair. ‘I was in court all morning. And then some papers I need for tomorrow hadn’t arrived so I spent the afternoon chasing them. And then when they did arrive they weren’t what I wanted, so I had to start all over again. I’ve only just got away!’
No other lawyer, Owen suspected, whether Egyptian or British, would work through the heat of the Egyptian afternoon. Mahmoud, however, was a perfectionist and couldn’t imagine going into court unless he was absolutely sure of his ground; and absolutely meant absolutely. They talked for a while about the case Mahmoud was engaged on and then Mahmoud asked him what he was busy with.
Owen told him about the protection racket.
‘Cafes, now, is it?’ said Mahmoud. He knew, of course, about the gangs. If Owen’s work reached the stage of prosecution, it would be the Parquet who would handle it.
Owen nodded.
‘A new target. Rather a tempting one,’ he said, looking around. ‘Fat pickings.’
‘Political?’ asked Mahmoud. He knew about the clubs, too. Indeed, he almost certainly went to one himself.
‘I don’t know. I wish I could find out.’
‘From my point of view it doesn’t matter much. Crime is crime.’
‘It matters to me. If they’re doing it for money, it ends there. If they’re doing it for political reasons, you ask what it’s going to issue in later. Bombs?’
‘You think this new burst of activity might be related to some particular issue that they have in mind?’
‘I’m wondering.’
Mahmoud, interested, sat thinking.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I can see it makes a difference to you. That is because you are always thinking about prevention. Well, that is good. Forestalling violence must always be good. So long as you yourself keep within the law. The law must always be supreme. Even expediency, which is, of course, the justification you can always cite, must bow to the law. Otherwise there is injustice, and that is a worse crime than violence, for violence is merely a fault of the individual, whereas injustice is a fault in the society.’
Mahmoud was a great legalist. He believed passionately in the law, which, of course, left him in rather an isolated position in Egypt. It even created difficulties for him as a Nationalist because, while it was easy enough to oppose the illegal British and the corrupt regime of the Pashas which had preceded it, he also opposed extra-legal action, such as violence. Peaceful demonstrations, he believed in; but then, as Owen frequently said to him (they spent many happy hours in cafes arguing the point), what demonstration in Egypt ever stayed peaceful?
‘Everyone is subject to the law,’ repeated Mahmoud stubbornly. ‘Even the British,’ he said sternly.
It gave Owen an opportunity.
‘About those complaints…’ he said.
‘Complaints?’
‘Those bloody fools in the cafe the other night.’
‘There was more than one complaint?’
‘Oh, yes. Not that it matters, now that they’ve both been withdrawn.’
‘Withdrawn? I didn’t know that the complaint had been withdrawn.’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Have you been leaning on them?’ said Mahmoud, his cheeks beginning to tauten.
‘I wouldn’t say leaning; it was more confused than that.’ He wondered whether he should tell Mahmoud about the two conversations.
‘Anyway, it is prejudicing the inquiry,’ said Mahmoud. ‘And that is interfering with the cause of justice.’
‘These people were pretty prejudiced already.’
Mahmoud was silent. He was used, of course, to this kind of situation. But it made him angry.
‘The investigation continues,’ he said coldly.
‘Even if the originating complaint is withdrawn?’
‘It’s on the files now. Besides, we don’t need a complaint. We can proceed without it. It was a clear breach of public order.’
‘No one’s denying that. It’s just a question of what’s the appropriate action. Is it a matter for the civil courts? Or for the military ones?’
This was a mistake, for Mahmoud knew a lot more about the law than he did.
‘Both,’ said Mahmoud. ‘However, what the Army does is no concern of mine. I do not have any say in it. Nor do I expect the Army to have any say in whether there is a civil prosecution or not.’
‘Not “say”,’ said Owen. ‘ “Request”, more like. The Army requests the Parquet to leave the action in this case to its authorities.’
‘Well, if it cares to put in a formal request… I shall oppose it, though the decision, in the end, will not be up to me. It will go to the Minister. And I daresay,’ said Mahmoud bitterly, ‘if you are wondering, that your Legal Adviser will be able to persuade the Minister, as usual, that it is not in his interests to allow the matter to proceed. But I,’ he added furiously, ‘shall lodge a complaint.’
‘That’s four,’ said Owen.
‘Four?’ said Mahmoud, startled.
‘One from you; one from Shearer-that’s that difficult Army captain; one from the Mingrelians, and one from the Russian Charge.’
‘Is he in it?’
‘He was in it. Now he’s withdrawn. In view of the Grand Duke’s visit,’ he explained, thinking this might mollify Mahmoud.
‘Grand Duke?’ said Mahmoud.
Owen told him what he knew about Duke Nicholas’s visit. Mahmoud shrugged his shoulders.
‘Excuse me,’ said one of the young effendi at the next table, ‘but I couldn’t help overhearing: this visit of the Russian Duke, what is its nature?’
‘Well, I gather the Khedive hopes to replicate an earlier visit, when the Duke’s uncle came to open the Suez Canal.’
‘Would you say it was cultural in purpose? Or political?’
‘Bit of both, I suppose. But cultural, mainly.’
‘There you are!’ The young man turned back triumphantly to his colleagues. ‘Cultural recognition leads to political recognition!’
‘What the earlier visit led to,’ said one of the young man’s colleagues, ‘was bankruptcy. And that led to the British taking over.’
Chapter 4
'Oh, no!’ said the cafe owner.
‘But yes!’ said Owen brightly, looking around for a place to sit and finally choosing one right next to where the owner was sprawled against a table, bandaged legs stretching over a chair in front of him. ‘I like your coffee!’
‘Mekhmet!’
A small, frightened-looking man scuttled in.
‘Mekhmet, some coffee for our guest!’
‘Right, Sidi Mustapha!’ said the man, touching his brow. ‘At once!’
He made for the door.
‘And put some poison in it!’ shouted the owner.
The little man stopped in the doorway, confused.
‘Go on, you fool! It’s only a joke.’
He clapped his hands impatiently.
The little man’s eyes rolled, panic-stricken.