A Cold Touch of Ice

by Michael Pearce

  The shopkeeper was silent again. Then he said:

  ‘Mahmoud, you say that the killer knew that Sidi would be passing at that time?’

  ‘That is so.’

  ‘Then he must have known how Sidi spent his evenings—he must have known about us.’

  ‘That is so, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Many people knew about us. But they knew about us only if they lived in this neighbourhood.’

  ‘That is so.’

  The shopkeeper shook his head.

  ‘I find that hard to believe, Mahmoud. We are not like that.’

  ***

  Since Sidi Morelli had been an Italian national, the Italian Consulate had asked to be kept informed. Politically wise, Mahmoud took the precaution of asking Owen to go with him to the meeting.

  ‘So,’ said the consular official eventually, ‘you haven’t got very far.’

  ‘It takes time,’ said Mahmoud.

  ‘I appreciate that. However, in the present circumstances, with the war on, I think it would be unfortunate if it took too much time. My country might feel that the investigation was not being taken seriously.’

  ‘It is being taken seriously,’ said Mahmoud.

  ‘I am sure. And the presence of the Mamur Zapt is a helpful guarantee of that. In the circumstances. But the Consul would feel more comfortable if he could see some progress.’

  ‘It is still very early—’ objected Owen.

  ‘Yes. But, you see, my country feels that if speedy action is not taken, there could be other attacks.’

  ‘Well, that is always true—’

  ‘But especially true in this case, don’t you think?’

  ‘You are afraid that there might be other attacks on Italian nationals?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There is no reason as yet to suppose that the attack on Signor Morelli was made because of his nationality,’ said Mahmoud.

  ‘I am glad to hear it. But then, what was it made for? It appears,’ said the official, glancing down at his notes, ‘that he was not robbed?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Perhaps your inquiries have turned up some other possible motive?’

  ‘Not so far.’

  ‘Then how can Mr Zaki be sure that the attack was not because he was an Italian?’

  ‘Signor Morelli was a very respected figure in the local community,’ said Owen.

  ‘I am glad to hear it. However, don’t you think that makes it even more likely that he was attacked because of his nationality? He was an Italian whom everyone knew.’

  ***

  The Consulate was in the Ismailiya so Owen called in afterwards to see Zeinab. A little unexpectedly, for Nuri seldom called on his daughter, her father was there. This didn’t matter, since Nuri regarded himself as largely free from the strict conventions of Egyptian society and didn’t mind Owen seeing his daughter alone. He knew about their relationship and, indeed, regarded it as entirely normal. Ordinarily Owen got along with him very well. This morning, though, he sensed a slight coolness in Nuri’s greeting.

  He wondered if he had come at the wrong time, and after a moment or two made to go.

  ‘No, no,’ protested Nuri. ‘I am just on my way.’

  He picked up his tarboosh and made for the door. At the last moment he turned and said to Zeinab: ‘You will think about what I said, my dear, won’t you?’

  ‘No,’ said Zeinab. ‘In France women are nurses.’

  ‘But the women who are are very low creatures. Believe me. I know.’

  ‘Not always. And it is the same in England. There was a great lady there. I have been reading about her in the newspapers, she has just died. She was a nurse and had the ear of the king!’

  ‘Women have always had the ear of the sovereign,’ said Nuri, unimpressed.

  ‘Not in that way. This lady was a great lady in her own right. And she was a nurse.’

  ‘That’s true, actually,’ Owen put in, guessing that she was talking about Florence Nightingale. ‘She was rather like’—he fished around for a comparison which would make sense to Nuri—‘Caldicott Bey.’

  Caldicott Bey was the British Adviser on Health.

  ‘Really?’ said Nuri, astounded.

  ‘Yes. She was a bit more than a nurse, though,’ he said to Zeinab. ‘More of a manager. She managed nurses. And hospitals too.’

  ‘That is what I wish to do,’ said Zeinab.

  ‘Yes, but I’m not sure you can start there.’

  ‘I can’t start anywhere,’ said Zeinab bitterly, ‘the way things are.’

  He’d got it now. When the war had begun next door between Italy and Tripolitania, Egypt had been gripped by sympathetic patriotic fever. Forbidden by the British Administration from more active engagement, Egyptians had poured their energies into medical help. Cairo had dispatched all its ambulances to the front (they probably hadn’t got there yet, since they were all horse-drawn) and a fund had been set up to purchase more.

  Zeinab, identifying passionately with the Ottoman cause, had at once thrown herself into raising money. Clearly, however, that had not been enough for her and she must have volunteered to go with the ambulances as a nurse. (Owen thought it quite possible that she had offered herself as a soldier first.) Here, though, she would have come into collision with the great masculine forces of Egyptian society: all Egyptian nurses were men.

  ‘I do not,’ said Nuri, ‘usually complain. But you must remember you are a Pasha’s daughter. Having lovers is one thing; being a camp follower is quite another. And female nurses are just camp followers.’

  ‘Not in France,’ said Zeinab, looking daggers. ‘Nor in England.’

  ‘I absolutely forbid it,’ said Nuri. ‘Remember you are a Pasha’s daughter. There is no need to be quite so disreputable.’

  ***

  It took Owen a little time to work out who the people at the auction were. Not the ordinary poor of the city nor the villagers from outside. They went to the Market of the Afternoon and did their buying and selling quietly with the stallholders. Not for them the publicness and formality of the auction. Nor the wealthy professionals or the foreign dealers. They went to the showrooms in the Ismailiya. It was, rather, traders of the lower to middling sort, men who made their turn in the morning and then for relaxation came along here in the late afternoon to see if they could make another turn. For the most part they were not Arabs but Levantines, sometimes distinguishable into their original national types, the Greeks, the Italians, the Montenegrins, the Albanians, more often part of that cosmopolitan Mediterranean mix that went by the general name of Levantine. They browsed expertly among the lots, often touching, sometimes sniffing, but somehow giving the impression that the goods were always in some way inferior, slightly dubious; and Owen thought that there was this truth in the impression, that the goods themselves were genuinely of lesser interest to them than the prospect of the bargain.

  Some of the Greeks had brought their wives and children with them. The difficult Greek, whom the Levantine auctioneer was already eyeing malevolently, had brought his wife. Here, too, though, it was very evidently only a question of time before a child would be accompanying them. The Greeks, thought Owen, seemed to go in for families.

  Today Georgiades seemed to have no interest whatsoever in the cotton; indeed, he seemed to be interested in everything but the cotton. The Levantine, used to this form of buying behaviour, settled back satisfied.

  Rosa detached herself from Georgiades and came across to Owen. She had always had a soft spot for him and sometimes thought that if Georgiades ever fell under an arabeah she would make a bid for Owen; that was, if Zeinab should also fall under the arabeah. Rosa, like Zeinab, divided the world up into female power zones and recognized Zeinab’s claim to territory.

  ‘So,’ she said now, ‘what’s all this about Mahmoud getting m
arried?’

  ‘It’s true,’ said Owen. ‘And it’s going to happen very soon.’

  He told Rosa about the mother. Rosa frowned.

  ‘I hope he’s not going to take over responsibility for that family too,’ she said. ‘I always get the feeling about Mahmoud that responsibility with him is a defence. Thinking about others means that he doesn’t have to think about himself.’

  ‘Perhaps his wife will sort him out,’ said Owen.

  ‘Very probably,’ said Rosa, who thought that was what women were put into the world for.

  Georgiades came up with the Levantine auctioneer in tow.

  ‘I’ve been asking him about baby-chairs,’ he said.

  ‘Baby-chairs?’ said Rosa. ‘What the hell do we need a baby-chair for? The bloody child’s not born yet. Cradle is what we want.’

  ‘Our other showroom—’ began the Levantine.

  Rosa turned the full power of her smile on him.

  ‘You don’t think you could keep your eye open, and if one comes into the warehouse, let us know?’

  The Levantine thought he could.

  The space in front of the platform at the far end of the tented enclosure was filling up now. The Levantine gave it a moment or two longer and then climbed up on to the platform and declared the bidding open.

  Because there had not been an auction for some time, there was an unusually high number of lots to get through. At last they came to the cotton. Owen stationed himself so that he could see the bidders. He had no great hopes of anything emerging from this. It would be far too risky to leave it to the auction. Safer by far to take the guns somehow straight from the warehouse. All the same, he had to make sure.

  ‘What am I bid?’ asked the Levantine.

  ‘What am I bid?’ he asked, as no one spoke. ‘Who will start the bidding? Some fine bales of cotton, straight from Sennar. Slightly soiled, but who would notice it? What am I bid? A real bargain this, diverted from a load on its way to the cotton market. What am I bid?’

  He looked now directly at Georgiades.

  Georgiades smiled sweetly.

  ‘A unique opportunity.’

  Still no bid. From anyone.

  ‘I am going to have to withdraw this lot,’ warned the Levantine.

  His eyes scanned the buyers. Owen watched carefully too in case he missed a sign.

  ‘No bid?’

  He looked again at Georgiades.

  The Greek smiled.

  ‘For the last time!’ said the Levantine.

  ***

  As he stepped out into the white glare of the Citadel walls afterwards, he felt a certain relief that it had come to nothing. He wondered why. Then he realized. It sent him back to the Nahhasin. In his bones he felt that the answers lay there. That was where the guns had been found, that was where Morelli had died. But it was more than that. In his brief visits there he had sensed the existence of a community not so much closed as integrated, one of the many such small communities that you came across in Cairo once you stepped off the busy main streets. In these communities things did not happen in isolation, they were nearly always connected with something else. If that was so here, then the answers to the questions about Morelli and the guns would be found not so much in the warehouse and his business but in the narrow streets outside, in the community of which he seemed to have been such an accepted part.

  Chapter Five

  Owen took an arabeah up to the British Consulate, where Paul had invited him to meet some people. It was even hotter in the arabeah than it was outside. Heat clung to the worn leather upholstery and fed back from the sweating flanks of the horse in front, along with the smell of sun-baked harness. It was like travelling in an oven.

  Even when they began to thread through the treed alleyways of the Kasr-el-Aini Gardens there was no relief, and after a while Owen stopped the driver and got out. He took a path over towards the river in search of a breeze. If there was one, he couldn’t detect it.

  He began walking up along the river towards the Consulate. He could feel his trousers sticking to his legs behind the knees. Looking down, he saw that his white suit was discoloured with great damp patches of sweat. He began to regret not having gone home first and changed. Everyone else would have done.

  When he got close to the Sharia ed Dakhaliyeh, he dropped down on to a bench for a moment to cool off.

  A water cart was coming along the Sharia ed Dakhaliyeh, presumably with drinking water for the Consulate. It was one of the modern ones which had recently been introduced, with a tanker-like top. You could hear the water swilling around inside in time with the gentle movement of the cart.

  The driver stopped beneath the trees and wiped his face with a fold of his galabeah. He sat there for a moment looking round him. Then he climbed up on top of the tank and unscrewed the heavy cap. He bent down and splashed water up over his head and arms. Then he stood up, lifted his galabeah, and peed into the tank.

  Soon after, Owen saw the water cart turn into the Consulate gardens.

  ***

  The guests were already out on the lawn when Owen arrived. Scarlet-cummerbunded waiters moved among them with silver trays.

  ‘We’re having to go easy on the ice, I’m afraid,’ said a cheerful young man, one of Kitchener’s ADCs. ‘There’s been a run on it.’

  Owen chose a whisky, which didn’t mind the shortage of ice, and wandered across the lawn. Kitchener was there himself, a tall man, tall even by Owen’s standards, and with an immense bushy moustache, turned down in a forbidding inverted V. Owen hadn’t had much to do with him yet, but according to Paul he caused everyone twice as much work as his predecessor.

  A little group was gathered round him. Among them, talking very vigorously, was a woman Owen didn’t know. She puzzled him slightly because, since she was new to him, he assumed she had just come out from England; and yet she was very brown. India, perhaps? The group was talking about railways. Owen wasn’t interested in railways and moved on.

  He fetched up beside the Sirdar, the Commander-in-Chief of the Egyptian Army, who was talking to a man in an elegant white suit; one without any damp dark patches.

  ‘Hello, Owen. Do you know—? No? Cavendish from our embassy at Constantinople. Owen’s in charge of security here. From an internal point of view, that is.’

  ‘Ah, internal,’ said Cavendish.

  Owen couldn’t understand the inflection. Nor could he understand what he was doing here, why Paul should have invited him. Nor what the other people were doing here, for that matter. He knew most of them, the Consulate people, the Army people. No one from the Civil Administration, though, surprisingly. There were several people he didn’t know, however. He decided it must be to do with them.

  ‘Who’s the lady?’ he asked.

  The Sirdar turned to Cavendish.

  ‘She’s a Miss Bell,’ said Cavendish. ‘We’ve had quite a lot to do with her. She travels.’

  A bit like Trudi, Owen gathered. She seemed to go in for long camel rides like her, and in much the same territory: Mesopotamia and Syria.

  ‘And does a bit of archaeology,’ supplemented Cavendish.

  There were two other archaeologists there, an older man named Woolley and a short, fair man named Lawrence, who Paul seemed to know.

  ‘Jesus,’ he explained.

  For a moment Owen didn’t understand. Religion? This was unlike Paul.

  ‘The college. Oxford.’

  ‘Oh!’

  The archaeologist laughed, contemptuously, Owen thought.

  ‘Are you in Egypt long?’ he asked.

  ‘Not any longer than I can help.’

  ‘He wants to get back to his dig,’ said Paul.

  It was at Carchemish, in Syria, and they had had some trouble there, apparently, with Germans building a railway line.

  ‘They didn�
��t know how to treat Arabs,’ he said.

  ‘And you do?’ said Owen, slightly irritated.

  ‘Yes,’ said Lawrence seriously.

  He went on to talk about his workmen at the site. They were of the best sort, he said. Not like the ones he had recently encountered at Petrie’s site in Egypt, who had been truculent and difficult.

  ‘Egyptians are all right,’ said Kitchener, joining them suddenly. ‘So long as they’re not spoiled.’

  ‘But that’s exactly it, sir,’ said Lawrence. ‘The Arabs of the Peninsula, the ones I’ve met, at any rate, are still unspoiled. They’re still proud and independent. Whereas the Arabs of the town—’

  ‘There I agree with you,’ said Kitchener. ‘The Egyptian fellah is the salt of the earth, but once he moves to the city—’

  ‘The army is recruited almost entirely from the fellahin,’ said the Sirdar.

  ‘But can you keep them away from the influence of the town?’ asked Cavendish. ‘Are they still reliable?’

  ‘At the moment, yes.’

  The image of the water cart driver up on top of the tank suddenly came into Owen’s mind.

  ‘Up to a point,’ he said.

  Kitchener’s slightly bulbous eyes turned towards him and rested. Owen had the feeling that he was being weighed.

  ‘It’s all right!’ Paul said to him soothingly afterwards. ‘It’s just the way he looks at people. Actually, he takes to people for aesthetic reasons, as well as because they’re efficient.’

  Which left Owen rather baffled. At the time, however, he merely held his ground, looking upwards into the eyes, which was an unusual experience for him and which, in fact, he didn’t much like.

  Kitchener moved away and the group broke up. A little later, Cavendish came up to Owen and took him aside.

  ‘We’ll be needing to work together,’ he said.

  Owen supposed it was over the gun-running.

  But the archaeologists, Woolley, Lawrence, Miss Bell, what had they got to do with gun-running?

  ‘Internal, external,’ said Cavendish, ‘you can’t really divide it up like that. Of course, if things come to a head, they’ll set up some sort of bureau to cover the whole Near East. Meanwhile, though, you and I had better keep in touch.’