“Yes,” said Garvin, “but if they get that far it will go to the Mixed Courts.”
The Mixed Courts were a feature unique to the Egyptian judicial system. Where cases involved foreigners, they were heard not by the native courts of law but by a court on which sat judicial representatives from the foreigner’s own native country as well as the Egyptian judges.
“That being so,” said Garvin, “and, considering that one of the people involved is a senior member of the British Administration-me-it would seem desirable that a representative of the British Administration was attached to the case from the outset. Then, if it came to prosecution, the case that was presented would have the support of both countries.”
“Quite,” said Owen. “If it came to that. But will the Parquet agree?”
“You must be joking!” said Paul in the bar that evening. “The most they’ll agree to, with their arms twisted high up behind their backs and the army indicating that it’s about to come out on manoeuvres, is to the attachment of an observer.”
“That’ll do,” said Owen.
“It will have to,” said Paul. “Though it’s not at all the same thing. The observer just observes. He doesn’t join in the presentation of the case. Nor in the decision as to whether the case is to be presented. He can stick his oar in when it actually comes to the court but only as a secondary witness. The Old Man’s not happy about that but it’s as much as we’ve been able to get.”
“Do they genuinely want a conviction?”
“Probably not. They almost certainly know there’s nothing to convict. What they’re looking for, I suspect, is the publicity of its coming to court. It makes the British look bad to the outside world and it makes them look good to their own supporters.”
“It won’t make them look so good if the case is a real shambles.”
Paul smiled.
“We’ve already tried that,” he said. “I tried to get them to appoint some real duds to carry out the investigation, the likes of Mohammed Isbi. Said how greatly we respected his judgement, how much he had our confidence. Any case presented by him would be sure to have our support.”
“Well?”
“They wouldn’t wear it, of course. They’re not that daft. They know he’s as thick as a post.”
“So who have they appointed?”
“Their best and brightest. Mahmoud.”
Mahmoud el Zaki was one of Owen’s oldest friends. The two were actually very much alike, young men on the rise. They had met on one of Owen’s earliest cases, which had turned out to be one of Mahmoud’s first cases, too, and since then their careers had kept a parallel course. They were both self-sufficient, not exactly loners-Owen was quite gregarious-but standing a little apart from their fellows.
They were both to a certain extent outsiders: Owen because he stood outside the charmed circle of those who had been to public school and the ancient universities, and because of the ambiguity of the post of Mamur Zapt, responsible to the Egyptian and British Administrations; Mahmoud because he, too, was not by birth a member of the Egyptian elite. His father, a first generation graduate and, like Mahmoud himself, a lawyer, had died young while establishing a position and Mahmoud had inherited both the family’s expectations and its lack of wealth and social connections. He had had to work hard to rise, to do it all himself. There was quite a lot in common between him and the Welsh grammar school boy from an impoverished Anglican family; not least a tendency to define for oneself a social identity by siding with the suppressed Nationalist opposition.
Mahmoud was in fact formally a member of the new Nationalist Party, which did him no harm in the Parquet but which left him politically and socially uneasy when it came to encounters with representatives of the Egyptian elite. He was, for example, completely at sea when it came to talking to Zeinab. This was, however, only partly because she was the daughter of a Pasha. Like most educated young Egyptians, Mahmoud had hardly ever met a respectable young woman and did not know exactly how one should behave. Besides, he wasn’t completely sure that Zeinab was respectable and when they met usually finished up looking down between her feet with embarrassment.
He and Owen were sufficiently close for Owen to be able to ring him up and say: “Hey, about this Garvin business; can we have a talk?”
“Yes, yes!” cried Mahmoud at once. “Come right over!” Then he thought again. “Um, well, perhaps you’d better not. Not here, at any rate.”
“Lunch? Marsalis?”
“Yes, yes!” said Mahmoud, eager to make amends. “Today! This afternoon!”
“Right, then. One o’clock.”
One o’clock found him in a little street just off the Mouski, far enough down to be away from the clangs of the trams in the Ataba-el-Khadra, not so far down as to be completely within the purview of the old part of the city where the cafes tended to be pavement ones and you squatted on your haunches around a large tray on the ground and dipped your bread in; all very well, but not good for weighty conversation.
Mahmoud jumped up at his approach and threw his arms around him, Arab style.
“It’s been so long!” he said enthusiastically (about a week). “What have you been doing?”
“As little as possible,” said Owen.
“I know! The heat! It’s been impossible in the courts. Two witnesses collapsed yesterday. Mustapha Kamil”-one of the senior judges-“said he’d have to bring the sessions to an end early if things didn’t improve. I’d be against that, though,” added Mahmoud seriously. “It would merely add to the backlog. We’re six months behind as it is.”
Mahmoud was a strong believer in hard work and efficiency. He and Garvin were birds of a feather.
“It can’t be long before the sessions end anyway, can it?”
“Two weeks. But really, there’s so much still to get through, we ought to extend it.”
“That would be popular!”
He sometimes thought Mahmoud was a bit unyielding. A broad smile spread over Mahmoud’s face, relaxing the intensity.
“It doesn’t stand a chance!” he said.
The waiter took their orders.
“At any rate,” said Mahmoud, “it will give us plenty of time to settle the Garvin affaire.”
“Is it the Garvin affair?” asked Owen. “Or is it the Philipides affair?”
Mahmoud shrugged.
“It’s the corruption affair. That’s the only way to look at it. We don’t make any judgements until we’ve had another look at the evidence.”
“Where are you going to start?”
“With the original sub-inspector. That’s ultimately where the charges came from. His name’s Bakri.”
“Mind if I sit in?”
“Not at all.” Mahmoud hesitated. “But as a friend,” he said, “a colleague. Not as an official observer.”
“I thought that had been agreed?”
“It has and it hasn’t. What’s been agreed is that your status must be informal. But the people making the agreement were not-well, they were politicians, not lawyers. ‘Observer’ expressed what they thought they meant. But there is no provision under the legal system for an observer. In a case like this I think it’s important to keep to the letter of the law. So, no observers. But as a friend and colleague you are most welcome.”
“Doesn’t it amount to the same thing?”
“In practice, with you, yes. But the judicial system must be free, and be seen to be free, from political interference. It’s a question,” said Mahmoud firmly but, looking at Owen, a little anxiously, “of principle.”
Mahmoud was strong on principles.
“There must be no British finger in the scales,” he said determinedly.
Abdul Bakri was still a sub-inspector.
“No, it didn’t go through,” he said. “Then or later. When you’re involved in something like this, you know, they don’t forget. People don’t like it.”