“Quite a girl, isn’t she?” said Georgiades. “All the same…”
The phone call came through in the early evening. The offices were closed-the working day started at seven and finished at two because of the heat-but Owen had gone back to his office and was quietly working.
“I’ll be right with you,” he said.
Outside, it was already dark. The streets were filling again after the prolonged siesta. People sauntered up and down looking at the shops, the goods piled high on the pavement outside them and the stalls crowding into the street. Except in the really wealthy areas there was no glass frontage to the shops. They were open to the world and their light spilled out on to the streets and as you walked past you encountered a succession of smells: the pungent bazaar-smell of Egyptian leather, the more subtle but still heavy fragrance of sandalwood, the sharp, burnt smell of coffee, the different burnt smell of roasted peanuts, the various aromas of spices and perfumes, tobaccos and caramel.
The streets became narrower and darker, the shops smaller and less frequent. People were no longer promenading but sitting quietly talking on their doorsteps or gathered round the pumps in the tiny squares or forming animated groups outside the small cafes. For the most part the talkers were men. The women, almost indistinguishable in the shadows because of the blackness of their clothes, kept to the sides of the streets.
A few looked curiously at Owen as he went past. In the darkness and with his tarboosh on, however, there was nothing to mark him out from any other Egyptian.
When he reached the Sharia en Nakhasin he looked around for the little square and found it tucked away to one side. It was not much more than twenty yards across and was dominated by a huge lead pump around which a number of men were sitting. They looked at Owen as he came up and one or two of them muttered greetings. He stood quietly at the edge of the group, waiting.
It was not one of the men but a small boy. Owen felt his trousers tugged and glanced down to see a small urchin apparently begging for alms.
“You are the Mamur Zapt,” said the boy, quietly so that no one else would hear.
“I am,” said Owen, equally quietly.
“I have a message for you from the fat Greek.”
“Yes?”
“He said you would give me piastres.”
“I shall. Here is one now. The rest when you have told me.”
“Go along the Sharia el Barrani to the Bab el Futuh. He will meet you there.”
“Here is another piastre. Come with me and there will be another piastre when I see him.”
As they walked along the boy said: “I have a friend who knows you.”
“What is his name?”
“Ali.”
“I know many Alis.”
“This one lives in the Coptic Place of the Dead.”
“I remember him.”
“When I saw the fat Greek I remembered Ali and thought of you.”
Cairo was a very personal city. The contacts and allegiances you made on one occasion carried over to others.
“What is your name,” asked Owen, “that I may note it?”
“Narouz.”
“Very well, Narouz. I shall remember.”
He could see now, ahead of him, the massive bulk of the Bab el Futuk, one of Saladin’s two great gates, and realized with a sudden shock of recognition that he was coming again to where he had been previously. To the right of the great Gate, outlined unmistakably against the night sky, were the square, pylon-like minarets of the Mosque of el Hakim.
A man stepped out of the shadows and said, “Effendi!”
“I am here.”
“The Greek sends me.”
Owen went with him, first giving the boy a piastre. Narouz slipped away but afterward Owen could see him following at a distance.
There were lights among the ruins where people had built their homes, and the glow of braziers where women were cooking. One or two of the workshops were still open. Owen could see the men bent at their serving machines.
They came as before to the liwan, the sanctuary, and its forest of pillars. For a moment Owen thought they were returning to the lamp store where he had come on that earlier, fruitless occasion. His guide branched off, however. They came to the far edge of the liwan.
Georgiades was waiting among the pillars.
“Thank Christ you’ve come!” he said. “I was beginning to think you would be too late.”
“Who is it?” asked Owen.
“Someone from the house. One of the servants.”
“I thought it might be the mother.”
“No. One of the boys.”
“Where?”
Georgiades took Owen’s arm and pointed. His eyes were used to the darkness and perhaps it was not yet quite dark, for he could see the figure clearly, a slight, thin figure, walking away from the liwan.
“You would have thought they’d have met here. As before.”
“Yes,” said Georgiades, “but they haven’t met. Yet.”
The figure came to a high wall, hesitated and then turned along it, bringing him back closer to Owen and Georgiades. “You’re sure?”
“We haven’t seen anyone.”
“What about the money?”
“It’s in the bag.”
“Where is the bag?”
“He’s carrying it.”
“I can’t see it.”
Georgiades looked.
“Bloody hell!” he said.
“For Christ’s sake!”
“He had it. He’s been carrying it all the time.”
“Well, he’s not bloody carrying it now.”
“But-but-we’ve been watching him all the time!”
“Like bloody hell you have!” Owen was furious. “For Christ’s sake!” he said. “This is bloody incompetent! What the hell were you doing?”
“He had it!” Georgiades appealed to the two agents by his side. “He was bloody carrying it, wasn’t he?”
The agents were standing thunderstruck.
“He couldn’t have given it to anyone. We’ve been watching all the time!”
“You’ve cocked it up. Again!”
Georgiades swallowed.
“He couldn’t have met anyone,” he said obstinately. “We’d have seen it.”
“Where the hell’s the bag, then?”
The thin figure reached the end of the wall and turned away again.
One of the agents looked at Owen.
“Yes,” he said resignedly. “You’d better.”
The agent slipped off in pursuit.
Again! It had happened again! Owen felt sick, furious. They had fooled him the first time. Now, they had done it again. And it wasn’t even properly Zawia! Just some slip of a boy from the Tsakatellis household, told what to do, no doubt, by Zawia but quite capable on his own of pulling the wool over Georgiades’s eyes. Georgiades! Christ, Owen had always thought he was good, about the only good one he had got. Two agents, too! All three of them, hoodwinked. Before their very eyes!
Before their very eyes. Just as it had been on the terrace when Moulin and Colthorpe Hartley had disappeared. Zawia seemed to make a specialty of it. They didn’t want just to trick you, they had to do it in a way which would humiliate you. Well, they had certainly succeeded. He felt humiliated and he didn’t like it.
“Christ!” said Georgiades. “Christ!”
The thin figure had all but disappeared into the darkness. A great wave of fury swept over Owen. They were not going to get away with this.
“Get after him!” he said savagely. “Get after him! If you don’t know what he’s done with the bag, he bloody does. And he’s going to tell me. Christ, he’s going to tell me!” The figure, clearly unfamiliar with the ground, came to a pile of huge blocks of demolished masonry and began to skirt around it. Georgiades, like Owen beside himself with fury, ran across to cut him off, moving with surprising speed for a bulky man. The two agents, coming up behind the thin figure, began to close in on it. They must have made a noise, for the thin figure looked back and then began to run. It disappeared behind some huge stones and Owen could hear it stumbling desperately on the loose rubble. Then it emerged again and ran around behind a rock-straight into Georgiades’s hands. Rosa screamed.