“All you’d find is a copy of the same memo.”
“I might find more. I might find evidence supporting the case that there was corruption in the Police Force. Independent evidence. Independent, that is, of Mustapha Mir. I might find more detailed instructions from Wainwright. I might find a sketch by Mustapha Mir of how he intended to set about the investigation. It might even include the suggestion of using Philipides as an agent provocateur.”
“That wouldn’t help Garvin.”
“I’m not trying to help Garvin. I’m trying to establish the truth. And when I find someone obstructing me from finding out the truth, I ask myself why. One answer is that they do not want me to find out the truth.”
“There are other answers. Issues of security, for instance.”
“I am an employee of the Ministry of Justice. Ultimately of the Khedive. As Garvin is. Cannot I be trusted on an issue of security? After all,” said Mahmoud, “it is my country, not Garvin’s.”
“He’s taken it higher,” said Paul that evening in the bar. “His Minister has formally asked the Khedive to instruct Garvin to release the files.”
“Much good that will do him,” said Owen.
“It’s not as simple as that. It’s put the Khedive on the spot. He knows Garvin won’t release the files unless the Consul-General tells him. But if he asks the C-G and the C-G says no, that will be a smack in the face and won’t do him any good with the Nationalists. He is in a considerable dither.”
“His normal state.”
“Forgivable, I think, this time. The C-G is not particularly happy about it, either, however. He doesn’t want to have to say no because he doesn’t want to be seen giving the Khedive a smack in the face. It doesn’t look good to other countries. We’re only supposed to be advisers. He’s on the spot, too. The people back home think it’s bad handling if issues like this are allowed to arise.”
“Everyone on the spot!” said Owen. “Just because Mahmoud insists on doing his job.”
“It comes as a bit of a surprise, of course,” said Paul, “when someone starts doing that. No one’s ready for it. However, one result is that they start questioning how other people are doing their jobs. Me. You. You, after all, are supposed to be seeing that nothing awkward arises as a result of this investigation.”
“I’m not sure it was put quite like that,” protested Owen.
“We, at least, are not daft enough to write memos about it,” said Paul, “but you know what I mean. Actually,” he said, waving for two more whiskies to sweeten the pill, “there ought to be no question of either of you departing, provided matters are handled with dexterity.”
A little group of people came out on to the verandah, where Owen and Paul were sitting. Normally, it was cooler out there but tonight the temperature was like that of an oven. “Cooler indoors,” said one of the group. “Let’s go back inside.” As he turned, one of the men saw Owen and Paul.
“Hello!” he said, dropping into a chair opposite them. “What’s this I hear about Wainwright? Coming back out here to give evidence or something?”
“Not so far as I know,” said Paul, “not unless he’s completely taken leave of his senses.”
“You remember Wainwright, of course?”
Paul shook his head.
“Before my time. Before yours, too, wasn’t he?” he said to Owen.
“A couple of years before,” said Owen.
“Oh! Well, he was Chief of Police. Nice chap. Very active in the Horticultural Society. You should have seen his garden! Envy of all the rest of us, I can tell you. It will be nice to have him back. Pick his brain over my oleander.”
“I doubt, actually, if he’ll come.”
“Oh? Pottinger seemed quite certain about it. His missus has had a letter from Wainwright’s missus. She’ll be coming too-the Khedive’s paying, after all-and they’ve asked the Pottingers to put them up.”
“Kind of them,” said Paul.
“It’ll be rather nice to have him around,” said his informant happily. “We’ll be able to talk over a thing or two.”
“It’s a long way to come.”
“You’d think there was too much happening in the garden.”
“First thought that came into my head.”
“Decent chap, Wainwright. You never knew him?”
“Afraid not. A decent chap, you say?”
“Oh yes. He was our secretary for, well, it must have been nearly ten years. Everybody liked him. Always willing to do anyone a good turn.”
“I’m sure.”
“Nice chap. Straightforward.”
“Straightforward?” said Paul. “Oh!”
The voice sounded familiar.
“Who are you?”
“A friend of Philipides.”
“Does Philipides wish to speak with me?”
“No. I wish to speak with you.”
“What about?”
“Philipides.”
He had placed the voice now. It was the girl who had been in his bed.
“Come to my office.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Philipides would hear.”
“Will he not hear if I come to your appartement?”
“It is not my appartement. It belongs to a friend.”
“If I come, you had better be sure I leave.”
“I know, I know,” said the voice impatiently. “You will bring men. They will watch the house. You need not worry. There is only me.”
“Very well. I will come.”
“This evening, then.”
He decided to take Selim. Selim was not the brightest but he was the biggest. Selim, spotting another rung on the ladder, was ecstatic.
“Effendi,” he said, “you can rely on me.”
“Give me an hour,” said Owen, “and then break in.”
“Effendi, I will.”
Selim’s confidence fell a little when he saw the building.
“Effendi,” he said, in worried tones, “this is a bit high class. Are you sure I am to break in?”
“After an hour,” said Owen, “you break in. There may be a chain on the door. Do you know how to handle that?”
“Oh yes, effendi. There was a chain on the door of a House for the Girls we called on last week and that was no problem.”
“An hour, then.”
The appartement was on an upper floor and there was a chain. “Leave that,” said Owen, as she made to replace it after letting him in.
The girl shrugged. She was dressed in the mixed way of many Levantine girls, in a European dress but with a heavy black veil which concealed her hair and the lower part of her face. Owen could not help remembering her as she had been without either.
She led him into a dark inner room lavishly furnished with rich, thick carpets, on both floor and walls, and not much else apart from a low divan and an even lower table on which were coffee cups. Beside the table was a brazier with a coffee pot nestling in its top. Most of the light in the room came from the brazier but there was a small oil lamp in a niche in the wall.
The girl sat down at one end of the divan, nearest the brazier, and motioned to Owen to sit at the other. She poured him some coffee. Owen thanked her and put his lips to the cup but did not drink until he had seen her do so.
“My name is Mariam,” she said.
“You know my name.”
“Gareth.”
“My friends call me that.”
“Yes, Gareth.”
Owen was a little taken aback. Their relationship had, indeed, begun on an intimate note; but he was surprised to find that it had already progressed so far.
“You are also a friend of Philipides,” he said.
“I am his wife.”
“But-”
“Why are you surprised? Do you think it strange that a woman should wish to do what she could for her husband?”
“No, but I find it a little strange that she should wish to do what she could for someone else as well. Especially a casual stranger.”
“But you are not a casual stranger. Our lives are bound up.”
“I must admit that had escaped me up till now.”
“You are new to Cairo. All our lives are bound together.”