Anne Perry - [Thomas Pitt 23]

by Seven Dials

  Pitt was making his way down the middle of the street, trying to avoid looking as if he was there to buy, when there was a scuffle ahead of him, and voices raised in anger.

  At first he thought it was merely a haggle over prices that had gotten out of hand, then he realized there were at least half a dozen men involved, and the tone was uglier than that of bystanders watching a squabble.

  He stopped. If it was a real brawl he did not want to be caught up in it. He needed to make his way to the edge of the city and out to the village where the military camp was where Lovat had served. It was east, towards the nearest branch of the Nile delta, and the Mahmudiya Canal, beyond which lay Cairo and, over the sands from that, Suez. He could not afford to get caught up in a local quarrel, and if it became unpleasant, it was the job of the police here, where he had no authority, to deal with it.

  He turned back. He knew there was another way around to the street beyond. It was longer, but in these circumstances, better. He started to walk more rapidly, but the noise behind him increased. He turned to look. Two men in long robes were arguing, waving their arms around and gesticulating, apparently over the price of a red-and-black rug near the feet of one of them.

  Behind him a group of men pressed closer, also curious to see what the hubbub was about.

  Pitt swiveled around again to continue walking, but now his way was blocked. He had to step aside not to be caught up in the heat of the crowd. Another carpet was unrolled, completely barring his way. Someone shouted out what sounded like a warning. There were voices all around him, and he understood none of it.

  Overhead the dark beams gave a patchy shade, but still the heat was intense because there was no wind. The dust seemed baked under his feet, and the smell of wool, incense, spices, and sweat were heavy in the motionless air. Another mosquito bit him and he slapped at it automatically.

  A young man was running, shouting. A pistol shot rang out and there was instant silence, then howls of anger. There seemed to be police of some sort, four or five of them at the far end of the bazaar, and another two only yards away from Pitt. They were European, probably British.

  Someone threw a metal bowl and it hit one of the policemen on the side of the head. He staggered a little, caught by surprise.

  There were cries which were unmistakably of approval and encouragement. Pitt did not need to speak the language to understand the meaning, or see the hatred in the bearded faces, most of them turbaned, dark and more African than Mediterranean.

  He tried to move away from the increasing violence, and bumped into a pile of carpets, which swayed. He spun around to stop it from falling, grasping hold of it with both hands, fingers digging into the hard wool, but he could not save it. He felt himself pulled forward, losing his balance, and the next moment he was sprawled on the pile of rugs, rolling into the dust.

  Men were running, robes flying. There were more shouts, the clash of steel on steel, and shots again. Pitt tried to scramble to his feet, and stumbled over an earthenware pot, sending it rolling fast until it caught another man and knocked him off balance. He fell hard on his back, swearing furiously—in English.

  Pitt clambered to his feet and ran toward the man, who was still lying on the ground, apparently stunned. Pitt reached out to help him up, and was hit with great force from behind. He pitched into darkness.

  He woke up lying on his back, with his head pounding. He thought it was moments since he had fallen and that he was still in the carpet bazaar, except that when he opened his eyes he saw that the ceiling was dirty white, and when he moved slightly he could see walls. There was no red anywhere, no rich colors of wool, only striped ochre and black and unbleached linen in a heap.

  He sat up slowly, a little dizzy. The heat was motionless, suffocating. There were flies everywhere. He swatted at them uselessly. He was in a small room, and the heap of cloth was another man. There was a third propped up against the farthest wall, and a fourth under the high, barred window, beyond which was a square of burning blue sky.

  He looked at the men again. One was bearded and wore a turban; he had a dark, heavy, swollen bruise around his left eye. It looked painful. A second was clean-shaven except for a long, black mustache. Pitt guessed him to be Greek or Armenian. The third smiled at him, shaking his head and pursing his lips. He held out a leather water bottle, offering it to Pitt.

  “L’chaim,” he said wryly. “Welcome back.”

  “Thank you,” Pitt accepted. His mouth was dry and his throat ached. An Arab or Turk, a Greek or Armenian, a Jew, and himself, an Englishman. What was he doing here, in what was apparently a prison? He turned around slowly, looking for the door. There was no handle on the inside.

  “Where are we?” he said, taking another sip of the water. He should not drink too much, it might be all they had. He passed it back.

  “English,” the Jew said with bewildered amusement. “What are you doing fighting the English police in a riot? You’re not one of us!”

  They were all looking at him curiously.

  Slowly, he realized that his blundering fall must have looked like a deliberate assault. He had been arrested as part of the demonstration of feeling against the British authority in Egypt. He had sensed the resentment, the slow anger simmering beneath the surface, ever since his second or third day here. Now he began to appreciate how widespread it was, and how thin the veneer of daily life which hid it from the casual eye. Perhaps it was a fortunate chance that had put him here, if he seized it. But he must think of the right answer now.

  “I’ve seen another side of the story,” he replied. “I know an Egyptian woman in London.” He must be careful not to make a mistake. If he was caught in a lie it might cost him very dearly. “Heard about the cotton industry . . .” He saw the Arab’s face darken. “She gave a good argument for factories here, not in England,” Pitt went on, feeling his skin prickle and smelling sweat and fear in the air. His hands were clammy.

  “What’s your name?” the Arab asked abruptly.

  “Thomas Pitt. What’s yours?”

  “Musa. That’s enough for you,” came the reply.

  Pitt turned to the Jew.

  “Avram,” came the answer with a smile.

  “Cyril,” said the Greek, also giving only his first name.

  “What will they do to us next?” Pitt asked. Would it be possible for him to get a message to Trenchard? And even if he could, would Trenchard be willing to help him?

  Avram shook his head. “They’ll either let you go because you’re English,” he replied, “or they’ll throw the book at you for betraying your own. What did you attack the police for, anyway? That’s hardly going to get cotton factories built here!” The smile did not fade from his lips, but his eyes were suspicious.

  The other two watched, holding judgment by a thread.

  Pitt smiled back. “I didn’t,” he admitted. “I tripped over a carpet.”

  There was a moment’s silence, then Avram roared with laughter, and the second after the others joined in.

  But judgment still hung in the balance. There was something here to learn, beyond just survival, and Pitt knew it. They might well think he had been placed with them to seek out the leaders of any potential trouble. There must be an equivalent to Special Branch in Alexandria. He must not ask questions, except about Ayesha, and perhaps Lovat, although Lovat had left Alexandria over twelve years ago. It was becoming increasingly important for him not only to learn the facts but to understand them, although he could not easily have justified it to Narraway, had he asked.

  The three men were waiting for him. He must respond innocently.

  “Tripped over a carpet,” Avram repeated, nodding slowly, the laughter still in his eyes. “They might believe you. Just possibly. Is your family important?”

  “Not in the slightest,” Pitt answered. “My father was a servant on a rich man’s estate, so was my mother. They’re both dead now.”

  “And the rich man?”

  Pitt shrugged, memory s
harp. “He’s dead too. But he was good to me. Educated me with his own son—to encourage him. Can’t be beaten by a servant’s boy.” He added that to explain his speech. They probably knew English well enough to be able to tell the difference between one class and another.

  They were all watching him, Cyril with deep skepticism, Musa with more open dislike. Somewhere outside, a dog began to bark. In the room it seemed to grow even hotter. Pitt could feel the sweat trickling down his body.

  “So why are you in Alexandria?” Musa asked, his voice low and a little hoarse. “You didn’t come just to see if we wanted cotton factories, and you didn’t get here for nothing.” That was an invitation to explain himself, and perhaps a warning.

  Pitt decided to embroider the truth a little. “Of course not,” he agreed. “A British diplomat, ex-soldier, was murdered. He was stationed here for a while, twelve years ago. They think an Egyptian in London killed him. I’m paid to prove she didn’t.”

  “Police!” Musa snarled, moving very slightly, as if he would get up.

  “They pay police to prove who is guilty, not who isn’t!” Pitt snapped back at him. “At least they do in London. And no, I’m not police. If I were, don’t you think I’d have got out of here by now?”

  “You were senseless when they carried you in,” Avram pointed out. “Who were you going to tell?”

  “Isn’t there a guard out there?” Pitt inclined his head towards the door.

  Avram shrugged. “Probably, although no one imagines we’re going to break out, more’s the pity.”

  Pitt squinted up at the window.

  Cyril stood up and went over to it, pulling experimentally at the central bar. He turned around and glared at Pitt, a slight sneer on his lip.

  “You need brains to get out of here, not force,” Musa said to him. “Or money?” He raised his eyebrows questioningly.

  Pitt fished in his shoe. Would it be worth spending what he had, if he still had it, to make allies? They probably knew nothing about Ayesha or Lovat, but they might help him learn—if there was anything worth learning. And he was beginning to doubt that.

  Their eyes never moved from him; they barely blinked.

  He pulled out about two hundred piasters—enough to pay for his room at the hotel for eight days.

  “That’ll do!” Avram said instantly, and before Pitt could even consider a decision, the money was gone and Avram was banging on the door with his fists.

  Musa nodded, his shoulders relaxing. “Good,” he said with satisfaction. “Yes—good.”

  “That’s two hundred piasters!” The words were out of Pitt’s mouth before he thought. “I want something in return for it!”

  Musa lifted his eyebrows. “Oh? And what would you like, then?”

  Pitt’s brain raced. “Someone to help me get some real information about Lieutenant Edwin Lovat when he served here with the British army, twelve years ago. I don’t speak Arabic.”

  “So you want fifty piasters of my time?” Musa concluded. “Well, you can’t have that if I’m in jail, now, can you?”

  “I want a hundred and fifty piasters’ worth of somebody’s time,” Pitt responded. “Or we all stay here.”

  Avram looked thoroughly entertained. “Are you making a bargain?” he asked with interest.

  “I don’t know,” Pitt responded. “Am I?”

  Avram looked at the window, then at the blind door. He raised his eyebrows in question to the others and said something in Arabic. There was a brief conversation. “Yes,” he said finally to Pitt. “Yes, you are.”

  Pitt waited.

  “I will take you to the village where the British soldiers spent their time off. I’ll speak to the Egyptians for you.” He held out his hand. “Now let’s get out of here, before they come and do something unpleasant.”

  PITT HAD VERY LITTLE IDEA of what was said to the guard, but he saw the money change hands, and half an hour later he was walking on Avram’s heels along an alley back on the edge of the city, and heading east again. As always, the flies and mosquitoes were cruel, but it had become habit to swat at them without thinking. His head still ached from the blow in the bazaar.

  Delicate, sweet smells mixed with the general ordure as they passed a cook sitting in the dust, leaning with one shoulder against the wall. He wore a shapeless robe of dun-colored linen and canvas shoes without heels. To one side of him was a flat, open-weave basket with dates, onions and what looked like a carrot and a pomegranate. Behind him was a large earthenware jar with a broken lip, and in front of him a brazier piled on bricks, and another earthenware pot on top of it. It was the mixture in that pot which he stirred carefully, and the steam from it which ensnared the passersby. The man’s skin was as black as the dates, his beard trimmed short and his head so closely shaven as to appear bald. There was a mildness and a symmetry to his features which made him almost beautiful.

  He ignored Pitt and Avram as if they had been no more interesting than the donkeys in the street or the dromedary standing patiently at the opening onto the square.

  Avram was several yards ahead and Pitt hurried to catch up with him. It would be worse than a waste of time to be lost here; it could be dangerous. Since the incident in the carpet bazaar he was more aware of the underlying mood of the men who appeared to be standing around talking or haggling. At times there was a stillness in their faces he realized masked a deep anger they dared not show openly. This was their city, and he was a stranger here, a member of a foreign race who had in effect taken what was theirs. That the British used it to far greater effect, efficiency, and purpose was irrelevant.

  Avram turned to make sure Pitt was there, and signaled him sharply to keep up. Thereafter they walked quickly and in silence. It was already late in the afternoon, and at this time of the year the days were shortening rapidly. They needed to reach the village near the military post before dark, and it was apparently a good distance yet.

  Pitt trudged through the dust on the baked road, thinking to himself that any peddler in the market who discovered an ointment to repel mosquitoes would make his own weight in gold within a week.

  They passed several men with camels, an old woman on foot, a boy with a donkey, and half a dozen people obviously returning from a celebration, singing happily and waving their arms in the air.

  They reached the banks of a wide waterway as the sun sank, filling the sky with a soft, yellow light. Long-beaked wading birds stood on the banks a little distance from the reeds, half a dozen in one place, twice as many twenty yards farther off. The walls of squared stones in most buildings seemed bronze, the towering palms like absurd headdresses on stilts, feathery in the still air. The only sound was the steady slurping of water by six oxen knee-deep, heads down and great polished horns looking like golden metal in the fading sun. The shadows were already deepening into shades of mulberry and purple.

  “We will stay here,” Avram informed him. “We will eat, and then we can begin to ask your questions.”

  Pitt agreed; there was nothing else he could do. So far he had learned nothing which would help Ayesha Zakhari, let alone Ryerson. If Lovat’s murder sprang from anything that had happened in Egypt, he had no idea what it could have been, and only Avram, or someone like him, could question the people who lived here.

  They went into one of the smaller mud-brick buildings. Avram was greeted by a man of about twenty-five, wearing a red and dun-colored striped robe and a turban of some pale shade impossible to distinguish in the light of candles and a low fire. They exchanged a few words, and Avram introduced Pitt and gave some explanation of who he was.

  Avram turned to Pitt. “This is Ishaq el Shernoubi. His father, Mohamed, was an imam, a holy man. He knew a great deal of what went on here, especially among the men of the army in the past. Ishaq used to run errands for them now and again, and he has a good memory—when he likes to. He understands a great deal more English than he pretends.”

  Pitt smiled. He could picture it vividly, although perhaps not with mu
ch accuracy. He could also imagine that to English soldiers a young Arab might be more or less invisible, as a servant was at home. Tongues might be equally unguarded, in the assumption that an Arab also would not repeat what he had heard his betters say.

  He bowed to Ishaq.

  Ishaq bowed back, his eyes so dark as to seem black in the flickering light. Already the sunset had passed from primrose to a far darker burnished gold, and the brilliance was gone. The oxen were moving in the water outside, and Pitt could hear them splashing.

  Avram had warned Pitt to accept the hospitality of food and not to offer recompense for it. A gift might be given at a later date when it would not look like payment, which would have been an insult. He had also, unnecessarily, warned Pitt to eat and allow the meal to be over in peace before he approached the subject of information, even obliquely.

  Pitt sat cross-legged on the floor, as he was invited, and hoped that after an hour he would still be able to stand when he got up again. As the meal wore on he began to doubt that he would. He fidgeted once or twice, and saw Avram’s warning glance. Avram seemed to have entered into the spirit of the quest as if finding the truth of Lovat’s service here were as important to him as it was to Pitt. Pitt wondered if Avram’s interest was the result of his inveterate curiosity, the love of answers and the exercise of the skill in finding them, or if he too expected some appropriate gift at a later date. Right at the moment, sitting in acute discomfort in the balmy night a thousand miles from home and anything even remotely familiar, it mattered to him not to offend, or disappoint, this curious man, and it would require a fine judgment to succeed.

  Finally the last date had been eaten and with a smile Ishaq asked why Pitt had come to Egypt. It was the signal that he was ready to be of help.

  “An English soldier has been killed in London,” he replied casually, trying as discreetly as possible to unfold his legs and keep the agony of cramped limbs out of his face as pain shot through him. He gasped, and turned it into a cough. “He is not so important in himself, but his death threatens to create a scandal because of who is accused of having shot him,” he continued, and saw some understanding replace the bewilderment in Ishaq’s face. After all, if an Egyptian is killed in London, what does that matter in Alexandria? He nodded politely.