The Night of the Dog (15 page)

Somebody slid into the shop beside them. It was their agent.

“It is him, effendi. I saw him clearly, but I dared not move. It is the one we were told to expect.”

“He had a bag with him?”

“Yes, effendi. As the Jew said.”

“Good. Go back now in case he leaves by the way he came. If he does, follow him until the tracker takes over.”

Owen had borrowed for the day some skilled police trackers, men who could follow a trail, or a man, even through the crowded streets of Cairo. He did not want anything to go wrong.

The agent slipped away unobtrusively.

In the shop opposite, Mordecai appeared to be bowing farewell. He straightened up, came to the front of the shop and stood for a moment looking out impassively. Then he moved aside, and a man came out of the darkness of the shop, hesitated for a fraction of a second and then turned away into the bazaar.

Owen stood for a moment in stunned shock.

The man was Andrus.

I don’t understand it,” said Owen flatly.

“Me neither,” said Georgiades.

“I thought he was the man behind the organization on the Coptic side.”

“Well,” said Nikos, “he is. I don’t think there is any doubt about it.”

“Then why the hell is he the man behind the Moslem organization too?”

“He’s not exactly that, surely,” Nikos objected.

“He supplies the money, doesn’t he? And without that the Moslems wouldn’t be half as effective.”

“They’re not paying him interest, are they? I mean, he’s not doing it for money?”

“Osman? Pay interest? To a Copt?”

“Funnier things have happened. Like a Copt lending money to Osman.”

“Osman personally doesn’t have money enough even to pay the interest,” said Nikos.

“Friends?”

“We’re back to them again. And the only friend that’s appeared so far is Andrus.”

“Maybe he is a friend. In secret, I mean.”

“Of the Moslems? Of Osman? I don’t mind us looking at some funny ideas,” said Georgiades, “but let’s not go crazy.”

“That can’t be it,” said Nikos.

“No. Well, I’m not really suggesting that it is. I’m just reviewing all the possibilities.”

“While you’re doing that,” said Nikos, “think about this one: Andrus doesn’t know what the money is being used for.”

“That it’s going straight to Osman? He set it up, didn’t he?”

“Well, did he? It was set up that way, certainly, but was it set up by him?”

“He’s involved.”

“Oh yes, he’s involved. But does he know?”

“Someone else set it up and he’s just being used?”

“It’s a possibility.”

“OK. I’ll acknowledge it as a possibility.”

“I’ve got another question,” said Georgiades. “If he’s a secret friend of the Moslems, why doesn’t he just give them the money directly. Why does he have to go through Mordecai?”

“I can answer that one,” said Owen. “He’s had to go through Mordecai precisely because he is a Copt. The Moslems wouldn’t accept it if it came straight from him.”

“They think it comes from other Moslems?”

“Possibly. I can’t see Osman accepting it otherwise.”

“Well, I find it confusing,” said Georgiades. “I thought it was all straightforward, with Moslems cutting Copts’ throats, as they have always done, and Copts cutting Moslems’ throats, as usual. Now it’s got more complicated.”

“Let’s go back to basics,” said Owen. “First, are we wrong about Andrus being behind it all on the Copt side?”

“No!” said Nikos.

He went to his desk and produced a sheaf of agents’ reports.

“If you look at my map,” he said with a tinge of pride, “you will see that all the incidents are still within half a mile of the Bab es Zuweyla. Not only that, they’re not spontaneous, they’re organized. After each incident the men go back and report. I’ve had them followed. They always go to the same place. It’s a house just behind the Mar Girgis. It belongs to the church and is used by its laymen for committees and administering charity. The church has a large charity programme. Anyway, that’s where they all go to report. Not only that; that’s where they get their instructions, because sometimes some of them go out again for a second time to take part in another incident. I’ve had my people watching the house for some time now. That’s where they report before they start and that’s where they report after they’re finished.”

“Why don’t we smash it up?”

“Because then they’d report somewhere else. Anyway, I thought you wanted to be sure about who was organizing it.”

“I do. Who is?”

“It’s got to be Andrus. There are other people in the house from time to time, but he’s the only one who has been there throughout.”

“You haven’t been able to get anyone inside?”

“No, but I probably could. Do you want me to?”

“Yes. Let’s have some certainty about one thing, at any rate.”

“Why don’t we pick a few of them up,” said Georgiades, “as they’re going to and fro? Then we could ask them.”

“We could do that too. I’ve thought about it,” said Nikos, “but I was keeping to surveillance until I was told otherwise.”

Nikos was a stickler for the rules. Owen never ceased to marvel at the way in which he combined incredible ingenuity within the rules with total lack of curiosity as to what went on beyond them.

“You mean you’ve known all along where they were going?” asked Georgiades.

“Not till they got there. I’ve known they were going, that’s all.”

“And you’ve done nothing about it?”

“Of course I’ve done something about it. I’ve had them followed from the time they left the house. The moment it was clear where they were going I’ve had a message back. And then,” said Nikos with pride, “I’ve had our people there within minutes. That’s organization.”

“Yes, but it’s all unnecessary. You could have hit them the moment they left the house.”

“Can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because we’re still on surveillance.”

“Christ!”

“Other reasons too,” Owen intervened. “There’s no point in picking up small fry. Not when there are so many of them. It’s big fry we’re after.”

“If you’d been out on the street”—Georgiades looked at Nikos—“instead of sitting on your ass in a cool office—”

“What I do,” said Nikos, “takes ability.”

“How did you get onto it in the first place?” Owen asked curiously.

“I had them followed back. After the first few incidents I began to suspect there was a pattern, so I tried to find it. You don’t get anything on this scale without communication lines, so I started looking for them.”

“Have you got it all worked out for the Moslems too?” asked Georgiades. “It’s not that I mind wasting my time, it’s just that I like to know that I’m wasting my time.”

“You’re not wasting your time,” said Owen pacifically.

“It’s not as clear-cut on the Moslem side,” said Nikos, “not as well organized. There’s no reporting back, for instance, so they don’t know how well they’ve done or what mistakes they make. But instructions have to be given, so again there are lines of communication.”

“Which you’re shadowing?”

Nikos nodded.

“They don’t always work. Some of the incidents are spontaneous. The other thing is that they have a general idea of what Osman wants so they don’t bother about instructions, they just go out and do it.”

“I think I may be a secret Moslem,” Georgiades said to Owen. “You didn’t know that, did you?”

“It all comes from Osman, does it?” asked Owen.

“Yes, Osman and Andrus. They’re the two.”

“They’re the one if it all comes back to Andrus.”

Georgiades went to the door and called for Yussuf. One of the other bearers shouted back encouragingly. In Yussuf’s present numb state they had taken to covering for him.

Owen sat there thinking. He couldn’t make any sense of it. The premise that everything started from was Andrus’s hostility to anything Moslem. It had been there right from the beginning, right from the night of the dog. It ran through everything. It had never wavered. He could not believe that it was wavering now. But how else to explain his actions? The money was definitely being brought to Mordecai; and Mordecai was definitely passing it on to Osman. Not only that; Mordecai was equally definite that he was merely doing as he had been instructed. And Owen believed him.

Andrus was part of it. About that there could be no doubt. But how extensive a part? Might Nikos be right and Andrus merely an unwitting accomplice, ignorant of for whom the money was intended? But then, Nikos was himself a Copt and, yes, under an obligation to Andrus; might not he be biased in Andrus’s favour? And then again, for all his brilliance at organization, Nikos sometimes overdid the speculation.

“Try another idea,” said Nikos. “Why don’t you apply the analysis you made of the Moslems to the Copts?”

“What analysis?”

“The political connection. You know, that there was a group of people at the top, ministers, perhaps, who had an interest in keeping relations between Copts and Moslems on the boil. You thought that might lie behind Mahmoud being brought back into the Zoser case. Keep the wound open. Copts against Moslems. I liked that analysis. It avoided the mistake that is so often made. People assume, the British especially, who appear to have a unique talent for combining sentimentality and intellectual evasion, that conflict, even massacre, is in no one’s interest. But they’re wrong. Sometimes it is in someone’s interest. And then if you want to find out the reason for the tension or how to stop it, what you have to do is look at the interests of those concerned. Perhaps the mistake we have been making is in applying that thinking to the Moslems but not to the Copts.”

Owen reached out his hand for the coffee a bearer had just brought in. A different bearer. Not Yussuf.

“Applying it, then, to the Copts,” said Owen, “what do we get?”

“Someone on the Coptic side wants to keep things on the boil, wants to stop agreement from being reached. To do that, they’re even prepared to give money to Moslems.”

“To be used against Copts?”

“All the more effective,” said Nikos, “if you wanted to keep things on the boil.”

Georgiades put his mug back on the tray.

“Someone’s a clever bastard,” he said. “Of course, it may just be you.”

“It fits,” said Owen. “It explains the money.”

“Not only that.”

“Yes,” said Owen. “It explains Andrus too.”

One of the bearers rushed into the office.

“Effendi! Come quickly. Yussuf has taken a knife!”

Owen ran down the corridor and into the bearers’ room. There were shocked faces everywhere but no Yussuf.

“Where is he?”

“He ran out, effendi. He said he would kill them.”

“Who?”

“Suleiman, effendi. And Fatima.”

One of the bearers plucked at his arm.

“He took my knife, effendi. He took my knife.”

“Where is Suleiman’s house?”

It was in the bazaar area.

“Take me there.”

The man ran out with Owen on his heels. Two of the other bearers followed.

From the Bab el-Khalkh to the Bab es Zuweyla was about half a mile. A man would go faster than an arabeah, certainly if you took into account the time needed to explain it to the arabeah driver. The bearer set off along the wide, dusty street. He was one of the younger bearers and ran fast. Owen found it hard to keep up with him. Within a minute the sweat was pouring off him and his jacket sticking to his back.

The bearer slowed to let him come up with him.

“Run on!” said Owen. “Fast.”

This was how they could save time, catch up. Once they were through the Gate they wouldn’t be able to run at all. The streets would be too crowded.

The bearer drew away again. He was running barefoot and had the advantage over Owen in his heavy shoes. By the time they had reached the Gate he was a dozen or more yards ahead.

Owen dashed up almost blinded with sweat.

“On! Get on!” he managed to gasp.

The bearer plunged at once into the warren of tiny streets, alleyways and passages between stalls that made up the area loosely known as the bazaars. Every road, every lane, even the narrowest of alleys was taken up with stalls. And wherever there was a stall, inevitably the passage was blocked by the wares which spread out from it, covering the ground on all sides, stretching right across the thoroughfare so that there was indeed no thoroughfare but you had to pick your way among pots and pans, saddles, boots, baskets, melons, bales of cloth, onions, and canvases appliqued with texts from the Koran and crude copies of the tomb-paintings of the pharaohs.

And wherever there was a suggestion of a space there would be a craftsman bent over his work: a weaver over his loom, a metal-worker crouched over a dish of grey ash fanning a lump of live charcoal in its midst with a blowpipe, a basket-worker holding what he was making with his toes so as to leave his hands free, a turner doing his turning with a little bow which might have been used to shoot arrows, the man making pegs for the ornate wooden windows.

Owen was in despair. Not only could he find no space to put even one foot, but whenever he hesitated, hands reached up at him beckoning him to buy. He slowed almost to a halt.

The bearer kept looking back at him. Owen would have told the man to run on but without him he would have been lost at once. What had happened to the two other bearers who had started out with them he did not know.

The bearer pulled him into a passage so thin that even the narrowest of stalls could not wedge itself in. There was barely space for a person to pass. Halfway along they met a woman. She pushed herself back against the wall to avoid touching a man but as Owen pressed past her he was as conscious of her roundnesses and softnesses as if he had been in bed beside her.

They came out into a slightly wider passage where there were no stalls but children were playing and black-gowned women standing in doorways talking. They looked up at him in surprise and pulled their veils back across their faces. One or two snatched up their children and held them close, making signs to warn off the evil eye. This was mediaeval Cairo, mediaeval still.

They went up another narrow passageway, not so much a passage as a mere slit between houses, and came out suddenly into open space. After the darkness and coolness the light and heat struck him like a blow.

The bearer looked round. Everywhere was rubble. There wasn’t a single building standing for hundreds of yards. The ground was covered with crumbling mud-bricks, heaps of cracked white stone. A dog barked and was answered by another. Out in the rubble he saw others skulking.

Then he realized where they were: the Coptic Place of the Dead.

The bearer turned left along a line of houses they had just come out of. The big ones they had passed through gave way to smaller, two-storey ones built of mud-brick which the rains were gradually dissolving. Everything was crumbling, falling down. Here and there were gaps in the line where houses had collapsed completely.

There was a piercing whistle and a little boy ran across the rubble towards them.

“Effendi! Effendi!”