The British Administration was advisory only. In theory, the Khedive and his ministers could reject that advice. In practice, because of the Egyptian Government’s financial dependence on Britain, and because of the large British army stationed in Egypt, the advice was not something the Egyptians could easily disregard.
The British were punctilious in observing the advisory form. On the one hand it gave them something they could shelter behind; on the other, it saved the Khedive’s self-respect.
Up to a point. As the years went by, and memory of the financial crisis receded into the background, the Khedive became increasingly restless. So did ambitious ministers. And so, much, much more so, did the growing forces of Egyptian Nationalism. There were many now, especially among the young professionals, who were eager to challenge the advisory form, to bring matters to a head over whether the British were here as advisers only or whether they were here to rule by force. The young lawyers of the Parquet, for instance. Mahmoud.
Like Garvin, Mahmoud might well see this as an issue of principle. Was the Commandant of the Cairo Police Force subject to the same judicial process as everyone else in Egypt or not? Did he answer to the Khedive and the National Assembly and the Ministry of Justice? Or only to the British?
“It may be necessary to interview Wainwright Pasha,” said Mahmoud.
“Wainwright? He left the country years ago!”
“He is still alive? These are grave charges,” said Mahmoud. “He will have to come back.”
“Come back?” said Paul incredulously.
“Wainwright? Fat chance of that! He’ll be too busy watering his roses, or whatever you do to roses.”
“If we cover his expenses.”
“Mahmoud’s very free with my money,” said Paul.
“He might jump at it. A holiday in Egypt at the Government’s expense.”
“Wainwright may be daft,” said Paul. “But he’s not as daft as that!”
“Mahmoud seems very determined,” said Owen. “I think the Ministry might make a formal request.”
“Well, it will get a formal answer,” said Paul. “Plus an informal one: Ha! Ha!”
“It’s an issue of principle.”
“Is it hell!” said Paul. “It’s a matter of practice. How do you compel a chap to come back if he doesn’t want to? Appeal to his better nature? Anyone who’s served in the British Administration hasn’t got one. Compel him legally? That would mean working through the Egyptian legal system, which is some task, I can tell you, especially when you get lawyers on to the job. And then it would have to go through the British legal system, which is even worse. It would take years. Wainwright would have died by the time it got to court. Of course, you could always bribe him, but that, given the nature of the investigation, hardly seems the appropriate thing to do. It might be worth trying, though. Since he’s on a Government pension, he’s bound to be short of money.”
“I’ll put the suggestion to Mahmoud.”
“Actually,” said Paul, thinking, “there’s another issue of principle involved, too. It is; once you’ve retired, ought they to be able to get you for the things you’ve done? Assert that as a principle and the prisons will be full of old age pensioners. No administrator will ever take a decision on anything. It’s only because they think they’ll be retired by the time there’s any comeback that they take the decisions they do. No,” said Paul, shaking his head, “this will not do. Mahmoud is tampering with sacred things. The principle of wiping the slate clean when you retire is fundamental to our society. Abolish it and the Western way of life falls apart.”
“You think there’s no chance then?”
“It’s Mahmoud v the Rest of the World. Again, poor chap.”
“Access to my files?” said Garvin. “He’ll be lucky!”
“Not so much yours as Wainwright’s.”
Garvin shook his head.
“Impossible. Can’t separate them. Besides, isn’t there a question of principle?”
“Access to the files?” said Nikos, shocked, standing in front of the cabinets as if an immediate attack was about to be made on their honour. “Never!”
“Only those dating back to Mustapha Mir’s time,” said Owen.
“All destroyed,” said Nikos. “It’s an important principle. When you leave office you destroy all your papers. Anyone with any intelligence knows that.”
“Did Wainwright know that?”
“Well, of course, Wainwright-”
“There may not have been any papers,” Owen said to Mahmoud. “And if there were, there won’t be now.”
He found Zeinab fastening a necklace around her neck. It was a silver chain with pendant razzmatazz dangling from the front of it which sparkled and flashed in the lamplight. “Very nice!” he said, kissing her just above the pendant. Zeinab examined herself in the mirror.
“Yes,” she said, “it suits me quite well. You don’t usually have such good taste, darling.”
“What?” said Owen.
Zeinab put her arms round his neck and kissed him. “Thank you, darling,” she said. “We haven’t seen each other for at least two days and I was just beginning to think that in your absent-minded way you had completely forgotten about me, when you produce something like this!”
“Just a minute!” said Owen.
Zeinab released him.
“Something wrong?”
“It doesn’t come from me.”
“Oh!”
She sat down on the divan. After a moment she reached up and unfastened the necklace.
“Another admirer?”
“Shut up!” said Zeinab, and threw the necklace on the floor.
He tried to make amends by kissing her but she turned her head away.
“Perhaps your father sent it,” he suggested.
“When he gives me presents he likes to give me them directly.”
“Or one of his friends?”
It always worried Owen that one day Nuri Pasha might seek to marry his daughter off. Nuri was a westernized Francophile but you never knew in a thing like this and there had been recent signs that he was prepared to use his daughter to cement a political alliance.
“Marbrouk, for instance?”
“Don’t be ridiculous! He’s still on the Riviera. Where he went at your suggestion.”
“What about that new man your father seemed very thick with the other night at the Khedive’s reception?”
“Demerdash Pasha?”
“That’s right. The pro-Turk one.”
“He’s not pro-Turk,” said Zeinab, “he’s pro-Khedive. Khedive as he was twenty years ago.”
“That’s the one.”
“Just because my father flirts with him,” said Zeinab coldly, “that doesn’t mean he flirts with me.”
“All right, all right. I just thought an alliance might be in the making.”
“If it was,” said Zeinab, “I don’t think Demerdash would think of consulting me. Or that it was necessary to placate me with gifts.”
Owen picked up the necklace. It felt heavy. That sometimes meant such things were genuine silver.
“Whoever sent it will find a way of letting you know, won’t they?”
“Why? Would you kill them?”
“Not exactly, but-”
Zeinab was disappointed.
“You English,” she complained, “lack passion.”
“Let me convince you otherwise,” said Owen.
The Aalima’s house, or perhaps he should call it coven, was a small modest building in a respectable part of the Gamaliya. Inside, however, it was surprisingly well furnished, with carpets on the walls, several low, well-cushioned divans and an unusual profusion of knick-knacks: fine porcelain lamp bowls, copper and silver trays and little silver filigree boxes. A brazier with a coffee pot was already waiting. Witch, she might be, but she knew how to behave.
She was, this time, decently veiled. Only the fine eyes were visible to remind Owen of the striking face. The matronly bearing, however, remained. Owen was shepherded firmly to one of the divans and given a cup of coffee. The Aalima sat down opposite; alone. She plainly had no truck with the usual convention which required a male family friend to be present when conversation was had with a lady.