And yet the procession was marching on as if nothing had happened.
An acrid cloud of smoke drifted across him. He looked round, bewildered.
And then he saw.
Behind him, a little way down the sharia, a horse, one of the police horses, was on its knees in a pool of blood. Its rider lay to one side in a crumpled heap, and everywhere, all over the pavement, people were lying. Police were running towards them, and children were crying, and the soldiers went on marching past.
Someone was plucking at his stirrup. It was one of the policemen.
“I saw him, effendi!” His eyes were round with shock. “I saw him! He threw something!”
The horse dropped its head and turned over on its side. Great shudders ran along its flanks and each shudder widened the gap in its belly from which blood and something else was pouring out. A leg seemed to have become detached from the horse and lay at a strange angle as if it did not belong to its owner.
Owen took a grip on himself.
“You saw him?” he said.
The constable was still clinging to his stirrup.
“Yes, effendi,” the man almost pleaded.
“Who was it?” Then, seeing the man was not taking it in, he gestured towards the crowd. “Which one?”
The constable had to force himself to look.
“I don’t know,” he said. And then: “He ran away. I saw him.”
McPhee appeared, distressed, efficient.
“You straighten things out here,” Owen said harshly. “I’ve got to see what’s happening up front.”
McPhee began at once to issue orders.
Owen called to him.
“This man says he saw who did it.” He indicated the constable beside him. “Get someone after them if you can.”
“Right,” said McPhee, and came across.
Owen had to prise the constable’s fingers open to get him to release the stirrup.
As he prepared to ride away, Owen caught sight of Ahmed. He was sitting among the people on the pavement, his head on his knees, weeping.
Owen called to one of the policemen.
"Get that one!” he said, pointing.
He did not wait to see what happened but touched his heels to his horse’s sides and cantered up towards the front of the column.
It was proceeding as if nothing had happened. The heels clipped in smartly, the arms swung, the faces were as impassive as ever. And up here, seeing only what they expected, the crowd, which obviously had heard the explosion, assumed that it was somehow part of the procession and cheered and shouted and waved as before.
Georgiades stepped out into the street.
“What’s happened?” he said.
“Did you get them?”
“Yes.”
“The grenades?”
“Two of them.”
“That was the third, then,” said Owen.
“Anyone hurt?”
“Yes.”
Georgiades grimaced.
“It was probably intended as a decoy,” he said, “to distract attention from what was going to happen up this end.”
“You got the men?” asked Owen again.
“Sure thing,” Georgiades soothed him. “Two men and a boy.”
“A boy?”
“A walad. To run messages, perhaps? Anyway, we’ve got them.” Owen cantered on.
Two horses detached themselves from the front of the column. One of them turned back to meet him. It was Brooker.
“What’s gone wrong?” he said.
“Sirdar OK?’’
“Yes.” Brooker looked at him. “Why shouldn’t he be?”
The other horse was John’s.
“Christ, Gareth!” he said. “What’s up?”
“Decoy-we think. The main business was to happen up here.” “Bloody hell.”
John prepared to speed back to the Sirdar.
“We’ve got them,” said Owen. “The ones who were to do the business up here.”
“The grenades?”
“All three accounted for. That was one of them you heard.”
“The others-”
“We’ve got. With their owners.”
“Thank Christ for that, anyway.”
He and Brooker rode back to the Sirdar.
The procession was approaching the Bab el Khalk, where it would swing left into the Sharia Ghane. The streets were wider here. There was less likelihood of an attack. Owen watched for a moment and then cantered back the way he had come.
The rear of the column was passing the dead horse now. Some of the horses shied a little as they sensed the carcase.
The pavement was clear. People were being helped into ambulances.
“No one much hurt, actually,” said McPhee. “Concussed, shocked, but nothing more. So far as we can tell. OK up front?”
“Yes. All according to plan.”
“Up front, yes,” said McPhee.
The horse was still. The blood was dark with flies, and other flies were dense about the entrails.
The rider had been moved.
“What about him?” said Owen, gesturing.
“Concussed. Just, we think. Alive, anyway.”
It could have been a lot worse.
They were enveloped in a great cloud of dust as the artillery went by. They emerged coughing and choking.
“Did Georgiades get the others?”
“Yes.”
“We’ve got this silly bugger,” said McPhee, waving his hand, “if he had anything to do with it.”
Ahmed still sat on the ground, hunched up, his head buried in his arms. The thin shoulders were shaking.
Owen dismounted and walked across to him. Ahmed became aware of the boots and looked up.
“I never thought it would be like this!” he said, weeping.
“Like what?” said Owen.
Ahmed’s eyes traveled out to where the horse was lying and then were quickly drawn away again.
“This!” he said, burying his head in his arms again.
“Bombs do this,” said Owen. “Didn’t you know?”
Ahmed shook his head.
“They didn’t tell you, did they?”
“No,” said Ahmed.
“Who gave it you?”
“What?” said Ahmed, uncomprehending.
“The grenade. The bomb.”
Ahmed raised his head and looked back at Owen, shocked.
“No one,” he said. “No one. I swear!”
“Where did you get it from?”
Ahmed looked blank.
“You threw it,” said Owen. “Where did you get it from?”
“I didn’t!” Ahmed almost shrieked. “I didn’t! I didn't! I swear!” “Who gave it you?”
“No one! No one! I swear!”
Someone touched Owen on the arm. It was the constable who had held on to his stirrup.
"Effendi,” he said. “It wasn’t him. I saw.”
“Not him?”
"No, effendi. The man ran away.”
The man had recovered from his shock but the eyes were still wide, horrified.
“Yes,” said Owen. “I remember. You said.”
“I saw,” said the man. “I saw.”
Owen looked at McPhee, who led the man aside and began talking to him quietly.
Owen turned back to Ahmed.
“I didn’t know!” Ahmed groaned, rocking his body from side to side. "I didn’t know!”
“What didn’t you know?” said Owen, bending over him.
“That they would do this. They said-”
He burst into tears.
“What did they say?”
Ahmed was unable to speak. He just rocked to and fro.
“Come!” said Owen, slipping into Arabic. “Something terrible has been done and I need to know.”
Ahmed brought himself under control.
“They said-” he whispered, “they said it was leaflets only.”
“You were giving them out on the pavement,” said Owen.
“Yes, I would give them out. And they-”
“Yes?”
“They would throw them on to the ground. In front of the policemen and soldiers.”
“You would do this at the back?” said Owen.
“Yes.”
“And someone else would do it at the front?”
“Yes,” said Ahmed. “In front of the Sirdar.”
“It was not leaflets,” said Owen.
“No,” Ahmed whispered. “No.”
He buried his head in his arms. Owen touched him gently on the shoulder.
“Who threw it?”
“Farouz.”
“Where will I find him?”
“At Guzman’s. We were to go to Guzman’s after.”