The Night of the Dog

by Michael Pearce

  He rang back later.

  ‘No chance,’ he said. ‘They’re up to their eyeballs in balance sheets, especially with Postlethwaite looking over their shoulder, and won’t even listen to me.’

  ‘They’re all bloody Copts in the Ministry of Finance, that’s the trouble,’ said Owen.

  The pressure now, though, seemed to be coming from the Moslem side. Crowds gathered outside the main mosques and there were huge demonstrations; spontaneous, according to the Moslems, organized according to Owen.

  ‘Osman?’ he asked Georgiades.

  Georgiades nodded. He had been out on the streets all day and his face was running with sweat.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Osman. Plus money.’

  The following evening there was a particularly ugly incident, although this time, against the tide, it appeared to be the Copts who were responsible.

  It took place not at the Blue Mosque but further along the street in front of the great Mosque of El Mouayad. Some Moslem students who had been visiting the Mosque were set upon as they left by a much larger gang of Copts and in the fracas at least one of the students appeared to have been killed. Owen was unable to check every incident himself and sent one of his men over. The agent, a good one, reported that the affair wasn’t quite as dramatic as first accounts had suggested and had been on a far smaller scale, but that students had definitely been involved and at least one of them appeared badly hurt. The involvement of students was something that Owen had been hoping to avoid. The students of el Azhar, the great Moslem university of Cairo, were only too ready to take to the streets in defence of religion or, indeed, anything at all, and once they were participating it would be very difficult to keep the matter localized. His worst fears were realized when the next day word came from Georgiades that a monster procession was being formed which would march from the gates of el Azhar through the Old City to converge on the Mar Girgis, where a demonstration was planned.

  The only good thing about all this was that the procession was going to march through the Old City.

  ‘It will be a shambles,’ Nikos confidently predicted.

  And on the whole it was. The streets were thin and crowded anyway. When hundreds of students tried to proceed along them they very speedily became totally blocked. The organizers of the march had foolishly neglected to warn the shopkeepers in advance, with the result that shops were still open and their goods, as was the custom with Cairo shops, spread across the pavement. Agitated shopkeepers rushed out into the street when they saw the marchers approaching and tried to rescue their wares. The marchers, who were initially good-humoured, slowed down in an effort to help. Those behind ran into those in front, some tried to crowd past, and in a very short time the result was, as Nikos had forecast, a shambles. One bewildered donkey was enough to block off a street—and that was without any help from Owen.

  The marchers became impatient with the slowness of their progress and spread into neighbouring streets. These filled up and blocked too and the whole Old City was brought to a standstill. Confused marchers mingled with bewildered shoppers, excited but ill-informed spectators tried to sort things out and soon everything was in total chaos.

  It was hours before the first students managed to permeate through the streets and come to within a hundred yards of the Mar Girgis.

  Where Owen was waiting. McPhee had put carts across all the streets leading to the church, barricading them completely. In front of each barricade a row of hefty constables was drawn up with truncheons in their hands. Behind the carts were other men. Owen took care to let the demonstrators see that these were armed.

  The demonstrators came to a halt. Because they had arrived independently and in twos and threes they had outstripped their organizers and were at a loss what to do. As their numbers grew they formed a wedge between the barricades and the main body of the procession, which was forced to stop short some way away from the barricades.

  Owen could see the head of the procession from where he stood. It appeared to be carrying something.

  It was some time before the organizers were able to sort things out. Eventually, however, they managed to open a channel in the wedge and bring the leaders through to the barricades. Among them was Osman.

  Owen could see now what they were carrying. It was a stretcher. On it was a pale-faced corpse with an arm flipping over the edge of the stretcher. The corpse was that of a young man. Presumably the student had died.

  As it approached, the cries of the students rose to a frenzy. Everywhere now was a sea of raised fists and shouting faces. Banners tossed and lurched among the faces. The first stone hit the carts.

  Osman Rahman pushed his way forward.

  ‘Why have you done this?’ he said, pointing to the carts.

  ‘To stop you from going any further,’ said Owen. ‘Tell your people to go home.’

  ‘They have a right,’ Osman protested angrily.

  ‘Tell them to exercise their rights peacefully.’

  Osman turned round and began to harangue the crowd. He was, of course, telling them no such thing. He was using the opportunity to denounce the British as well as the Copts, bracketing them together as Christians combining against true believers. The voice rose on a wave of passion. Owen could not tell whether this actually was the demonstration, conveniently moved in view of the circumstances, or whether Osman meant to whip things up to the point when the crowd would storm the barricade. The rhetoric was violent enough. On the other hand Osman was a practised orator and knew what he was doing. The crowd had settled to listen to him. No more stones were being thrown.

  The stretcher was being passed over the heads of the crowd. Once or twice as a hand grabbed and missed it lurched and threatened to tilt the corpse on to the crowd. Somehow it always righted itself and reached the front, where new hands seized it and raised it high so that everyone could see it. There was Osman, raised on the knees of his supporters, and the corpse limp on the stretcher beside him.

  From time to time Osman turned and gesticulated at the stretcher and every time he did so a cry of anger rose from the crowd. The constables twitched apprehensively.

  McPhee slid along in front of them and stood beside Owen.

  ‘Do we wait?’ he said. ‘Or do we hit them before they come to the boil?’

  Although McPhee, as Assistant Commandant, was nominally ranked higher than Owen, in operations of this sort the Mamur Zapt, responsible for order in the city, was in control.

  Owen was undecided. It was usually best to break up a demonstration in the early stages. It might already be too late. On the other hand it could still all end peacefully.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw the stretcher give a great jump. One of the arms holding it was getting tired.

  Something about the corpse attracted his attention.

  The stretcher jerked again.

  The corpse seemed to brace itself against the tilt but that could not be, unless—

  Owen watched it carefully and waited for the arm to tire again. When the jerk came he was ready for it.

  ‘Have you a cigarette?’ he asked McPhee.

  McPhee was surprised.

  ‘Thought you didn’t smoke,’ he said.

  However, he fumbled in his pocket and produced his usual cheroots.

  Owen had seen it done during his time in Alexandria, where hysterical prostitutes were quickly restored to life and reason by an experienced old Austrian police officer of the Labban Red Light quarter.

  He lit the cheroot and, concealing it in his curved palm, edged towards the stretcher. The corpse’s hand hung stiffly over the side.

  Owen pressed the glowing end of the cheroot on to the dead man’s hand. If things were as they seemed it wouldn’t matter.

  The ‘corpse’ shot upright with a yell. As it did so the death-like covering of flour fell from its face.

  There was a moment or two of stunned silence. And then the crowd began to laugh.

  The next morning the episode was the talk
of all the bazaars in Cairo; and the bazaars enjoyed it greatly. From the bazaars the tale passed via servants into households and thence to the clubs, not so dissimilar from bazaars in their capacity to retail and embellish a story. Word came that the Sirdar liked it and Garvin was obliged to pass on to Owen a note of approval from the Consul-General.

  ‘At least no one was killed,’ said Garvin sourly.

  More to the point, the affair earned Owen a few days’ breathing space. Not everyone in the Old City was an admirer of Sheikh Osman and there were quite a few Moslems as well as Copts who rejoiced in his discomfiture. For a few days Osman could not bring himself to show his face in public and there was a noticeable lull in hostilities.

  ‘It won’t last,’ said Georgiades. ‘Some brainless Copt is sure to attack a Moslem.’

  ‘Or vice versa,’ said Nikos.

  Meanwhile Yussuf’s affairs were progressing. The go-between had produced some degree of accord. Yussuf’s wife, Fatima, was flattered by Owen’s interest in the state of her marital relationship and after some hard bargaining agreed to return to Yussuf. The only problems now were technical. Here, too, progress was made. A man was found, a friend of one of the bearers, named Suleiman, who agreed—for a consideration—to become the temporary bridegroom. Yussuf applied to Owen, who after swearing aloud to Allah that never again, under absolutely any circumstances, etc., etc., found the necessary money. And the very next day Yussuf, supported, as was proper, by every bearer in the place, went forth to tie and untie and retie the marital knots.

  An hour or so later Owen was working peacefully in his office when the door slammed at the end of the building and feet came running along the corridor.

  A bearer burst into the room.

  ‘Effendi! Oh, effendi! Something terrible has happened!’

  ‘Has Suleiman pulled out?’

  ‘Oh no, effendi.’

  ‘The marriage went ahead?’

  ‘Yes, effendi. But afterwards—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘He wouldn’t divorce her.’

  ‘Not divorce her?’

  ‘No, effendi. He said he had changed his mind. He said that Fatima’s beauty was like the moon and the stars—’

  ‘Yes, yes. He refused to use the vow?’

  ‘That’s right, effendi. We pleaded with them. We said it was wrong. But Suleiman said that Fatima’s beauty—’

  ‘OK, OK. The upshot is they’re still married?’

  ‘Yes, effendi. Suleiman said—’

  ‘We’ve had that.’

  The bearer looked injured.

  ‘—that it wouldn’t have counted anyway because he would not have been able to use the words with a true heart.’

  ‘Of course it would have counted.’

  ‘That’s what we said, effendi. But he wouldn’t listen to us.’

  ‘Bloody hell!’ said Owen.

  ‘They went back to Suleiman’s house,’ said the bearer, gratified, ‘and barred themselves in an upper room. We heard them laughing, effendi. And then they made the noises.’

  Yussuf was in a state of deep shock. Later in the afternoon Owen went along to the bearers’ room. He found Yussuf squatting on the floor with his back against one of the walls staring dazedly into space. He did not even look up.

  Both Georgiades and Nikos made use of the lull.

  ‘I’ve found out something,’ said Georgiades, coming into the office the morning after the crash of Yussuf’s hopes.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Where Osman gets his money from.’

  Owen laid his pencil down.

  ‘The Goldsmiths’ Bazaar. He’s taken to going there regularly.’

  ‘To borrow?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought so. To be given.’

  ‘Who’s giving it him?’

  ‘A Jew.’

  ‘A Jew? Odd, that.’

  ‘He’s obviously just an intermediary.’

  ‘He gets the money from someone else and passes it on to Osman?’

  ‘That’s right. That’s, my guess, anyway.’

  ‘Have you talked to the Jew?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Will he talk?’

  ‘He might.’

  ‘It would be interesting to know who he gets it from.’

  ‘Want me to ask?’

  ‘Might be better to wait. Have you got a man on him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Leave it like that for a day or two.’

  Nikos had been busy, too, and he summoned them to show them the result of his labours.

  On the wall in his room was a large map of Cairo. Pinned to it were a lot of little paper flags. Each flag stood for an ‘incident’, green for Moslem-inspired ones, red for those initiated by Copts.

  ‘Notice anything?’

  The geographical pattern was clear. Four-fifths of the flags were within half a mile of the Bab es Zuweyla, the Old Gate, near which was both the Blue Mosque of the Dervishes and the old church of the Copts, the Mar Girgis. Nikos had marked the church in white, the mosque in blue.

  ‘Osman territory,’ said Owen.

  ‘And Andrus territory?’ asked Georgiades.

  Owen looked at Nikos.

  ‘Mar Girgis territory, at any rate,’ said Nikos. ‘A church is the centre of any Coptic network, and all the incidents fall in the territory that the Mar Girgis covers.’

  ‘Someone at the church, then. Not the priests—’

  Uncomfortable memories of what had happened on his last visit to the Mar Girgis flooded into Owen’s mind.

  ‘No, no, no. They don’t go in for this sort of thing. Someone else. Someone in the congregation. They’re in the congregation so they naturally think of using the network. It’s the sort of thing a Copt would think of, the sort of way they think.’

  ‘Zoser was in the congregation,’ said Owen.

  ‘Yes,’ said Nikos, ‘that’s one of the things I had in mind.’

  ‘And Andrus.’

  ‘That too.’

  ‘The Zikr,’ said Georgiades, ‘was in Osman’s congregation. In a manner of speaking.’

  ‘Is that it, then?’ asked Owen. ‘Is that what’s happening? Andrus and Osman are slugging it out?’

  CHAPTER 10

  ‘It’s hotting up again,’ said Garvin.

  ‘Yes,’ said Owen, ‘I know.’

  ‘Pity. I was hoping you’d got it under control.’

  ‘It was just a lull.’

  ‘It didn’t take long for him to bounce back.’

  ‘Someone’s feeding him money.’

  ‘Any idea who?’

  ‘Not yet. We think we know how but we don’t know who.’

  ‘Only a question of time, then. The trouble is,’ said Garvin, ‘that time is exactly what you haven’t got.’

  ‘It’s still two weeks to the Moulid.’

  Garvin brushed it away.

  ‘Not that. The Consul-General’s been on to me. He would like things to quieten down.’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ said Garvin. ‘Wouldn’t we all? Only I gather he’s got a special reason for wanting it just now.’

  ‘Are we allowed to know what it is?’

  Owen waited while Garvin thought it over.

  ‘No,’ said Garvin finally. ‘I don’t think so. Political. At the top.’

  ‘These things have a way of working down.’

  ‘And then a way of leaking out.’

  ‘The effect, I meant. Not the information.’

  ‘The information won’t help you. Still,’ said Garvin, relenting, ‘I could tell you something, I suppose.’

  He liked to remind Owen that, out on a privileged limb though the Mamur Zapt might be, he, Garvin, had access to levels that Owen could only aspire to.

  ‘It’s to do with the succession.’ Garvin said. ‘The Consul-General wants the Khedive to reshuffle his Cabinet. And he has a particular person he would like to see become Prime Minister.’

  ‘Patros?’
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  Garvin looked at him in surprise.

  ‘You know?’

  ‘I had an inkling.’

  ‘Well,’ said Garvin, recovering. ‘I suppose it’s the sort of thing you ought to have an inkling of. Though it’s meant to be secret. Well, then, you’ll know why just at the moment the Consul-General doesn’t want trouble between Moslems and Copts.’

  ‘There’s always trouble between Moslems and Copts. It’s a fact of life.’

  ‘Yes, I know. But at some times it’s apparent and at other times it’s not. I want this one to be one of the times when it’s not.’

  ‘You can’t just damp these things down.’

  ‘Can’t you? I thought you just had.’

  ‘I was lucky. And it earned us a lull, that was all.’

  ‘Earn us another one, then,’ said Garvin, ‘only a bit longer this time.’

  Owen wanted to say it couldn’t be done. Wisely, he didn’t.

  ‘OK?’

  ‘How much longer?’

  ‘It’s hard to say. A month?’

  ‘The Moulid’s in two weeks’ time.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ said Garvin. ‘I was forgetting.’ He frowned and fidgeted with his pencil. ‘I’ll talk to the CG,’ he said. ‘Mind you, I’m not promising anything. There’s a complete log-jam at the moment.’

  ‘The levy business?’

  ‘Yes. The Khedive won’t agree to anything until he’s got that.’

  ‘Why is he insisting on that?’

  ‘Because he wants the money.’

  ‘Yes, but why does it have to be raised by means of a levy?’

  ‘Because otherwise it would have to be financed through a general increase in taxation. That would increase the Khedive’s unpopularity, and he’s unpopular enough already. Whereas if he raised it through a levy on Copts that would be wildly popular with everyone else. His Ministers are telling him it’s a masterstroke. They’re Moslem, of course.’

  ‘So he’s not going to give way?’

  ‘No. And nor is Patros.’

  ‘So it could take some time?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And the Moulid is in a fortnight’s time.’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’

  ‘If the Khedive got his money in some other way,’ said Owen, as he turned to go, ‘would that help?’