Cat Among the Pigeons Read Free Page B

considering the immediate future. One young man was dark, with a smooth olive face and large melancholy eyes. He was Prince Ali Yusuf, Hereditary Sheikh of Ramat, which, though small, was one of the richest states in the Middle East. The other young man was sandy haired and freckled and more or less penniless, except for the handsome salary he drew as private pilot to His Highness Prince Ali Yusuf. In spite of this difference in status, they were on terms of perfect equality. They had been at the same public school and had been friends then and ever since.
    â€œThey shot at us, Bob,” said Prince Ali almost incredulously.
    â€œThey shot at us all right,” said Bob Rawlinson.
    â€œAnd they meant it. They meant to bring us down.”
    â€œThe bastards meant it all right,” said Bob grimly.
    Ali considered for a moment.
    â€œIt would hardly be worthwhile trying again?”
    â€œWe mightn’t be so lucky this time. The truth is, Ali, we’ve left things too late. You should have got out two weeks ago. I told you so.”
    â€œOne doesn’t like to run away,” said the ruler of Ramat.
    â€œI see your point. But remember what Shakespeare or one of these poetical fellows said about those who run away living to fight another day.”
    â€œTo think,” said the young Prince with feeling, “of the money that has gone into making this a Welfare State. Hospitals, schools, a Health Service—”
    Bob Rawlinson interrupted the catalogue.
    â€œCouldn’t the Embassy do something?”
    Ali Yusuf flushed angrily.
    â€œTake refuge in your Embassy? That, never. The extremists would probably storm the place—they wouldn’t respect diplomatic immunity. Besides, if I did that, it really would be the end! Already the chief accusation against me is of being pro-Western.” He sighed. “It is so difficult to understand.” He sounded wistful, younger than his twenty-five years. “My grandfather was a cruel man, a real tyrant. He had hundreds of slaves and treated them ruthlessly. In his tribal wars, he killed his enemies unmercifully and executed them horribly. The mere whisper of his name made everyone turn pale. And yet— he is a legend still! Admired! Respected! The great Achmed Abdullah! And I? What have I done? Built hospitals and schools, welfare, housing … all the things people are said to want. Don’t they want them? Would they prefer a reign of terror like my grandfather’s?”
    â€œI expect so,” said Bob Rawlinson. “Seems a bit unfair, but there it is.”
    â€œBut why, Bob? Why? ”
    Bob Rawlinson sighed, wriggled and endeavoured to explain what he felt. He had to struggle with his own inarticulateness.
    â€œWell,” he said. “He put up a show—I suppose that’s it really. He was—sort of—dramatic, if you know what I mean.”
    He looked at his friend who was definitely not dramatic. A nice quiet decent chap, sincere and perplexed, that was what Ali was, and Bob liked him for it. He was neither picturesque nor violent, but whilst in England people who are picturesque and violent cause embarrassment and are not much liked, in the Middle East, Bob was fairly sure, it was different.
    â€œBut democracy—” began Ali.
    â€œOh, democracy—” Bob waved his pipe. “That’s a word that means different things everywhere. One thing’s certain. It never means what the Greeks originally meant by it. I bet you anything you like that if they boot you out of here, some spouting hot air merchant will take over, yelling his own praises, building himself up into God Almighty, and stringing up, or cutting off the heads of anyone who dares to disagree with him in any way. And, mark you, he’ll say it’s a Democratic Government—of the people and for the people. I expect the people will like it too. Exciting for them. Lots of bloodshed.”
    â€œBut we are