she said. ‘Sending him round the cafés. They’ll be too frightened to talk. You’ve got to be able to offer them something.’
‘We
are
offering them something: defence.’
Rosa shook her head.
‘It’s too risky,’ she said. ‘You might catch the gang, you might not. If you don’t, and they’ve talked to you, then they’re in trouble. Why take a chance?’
‘Because otherwise they have to pay. And go on paying.’
‘You ought to go about it in a different way. Don’t let them think they’re talking to you. Why don’t you have him go round pretending to sell insurance? Insurance against loss? They’ll all be interested in that. They’ll want to know what it covers. It would at least get them talking. And then he might be able to lead them on. He’s good,’ said Rosa, looking unforgivingly at the pile of packages beside her, ‘at leading people on.’
Owen sent them off in an arabeah, the universal one-horse cab of Cairo, and settled down to wait for the bill. You could wait a long time for that and meanwhile his eyes wandered relaxedly over the scene in front of him. The Ataba-el-Khadra was the meeting place of two worlds. The Musky led straight up from the Old City and you went down it if you were a European wanting to visit the bazaars, or came up it if you were a native intending to visit the shops in the European quarter or, more likely, catch a tram. The Ataba was the terminus for most of Cairo’s tram routes and at any hour of the day or night the square was full of trams, native horse-drawn buses, arabeahs and camels bringing forage for the horses. It was also full of street hawkers selling brushes (why?), ice-cream, lemonade, water, sponges, loofahs, canes (no young effendi from one of the big offices was properly dressed unless he carried a cane), hats (the pot-like tarboosh of the Egyptian) and sugar for instant consumption. The two biggest industries, however, were selling pastries and selling Nationalist newspapers. Cairenes, lacking confidence, perhaps, in their public-transport system, believed in stocking up before embarking on a journey. But they also believed in not making a journey at all but just sitting around, and when they sat around, they liked to sit in a café and read scurrilous Nationalist newspapers. Just behind the Ataba were the big offices of Credit Lyonnais and the Mixed Tribunals and beyond them the headquarters of the Anglo-Egyptian Bank, and the countless young men who worked in them were all avid Nationalists.
Owen looked around at the crowded café and thought: if other cafés, why not this one?
He knew the proprietor of the café and beckoned him over.
‘Tell me, Yasin,’ he said. ‘Do you pay protection?’
‘Not yet,’ said the proprietor.
‘Is that because they have not asked? Or because you have not agreed?’
‘If they asked,’ said Yasin, diplomatically but evasively, ‘I would reply: I need no protection, for the Mamur Zapt sits every night at my tables.’
The first stage of the café evening was coming to an end and at several tables people were standing up and shaking hands. It was time to be firm about that bill. Or perhaps, just before he left, an apéritif?
‘How about an apéritif?’ said a familiar voice, and Paul dropped into a chair beside him.
‘I reckon you owe me one,’ said Owen, ‘after that meeting this morning.’
‘Bloody awful, wasn’t it? It’s high time the Army went on manoeuvres. Preferably at the bottom of the Red Sea.’
‘What’s all this business about unifying the policing? I don’t like the sound of it.’
‘It won’t get anywhere. The Old Man will kill it dead.’
Paul was one of the Consul-General’s aides and frequently, as this morning, chaired meetings on his behalf.
‘Will he, though? If they really push?’
‘They’ll only get his back up. He’ll see it as trespassing.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘It won’t get anywhere. At the end of the day, the Old Man’s a
‘We
are
offering them something: defence.’
Rosa shook her head.
‘It’s too risky,’ she said. ‘You might catch the gang, you might not. If you don’t, and they’ve talked to you, then they’re in trouble. Why take a chance?’
‘Because otherwise they have to pay. And go on paying.’
‘You ought to go about it in a different way. Don’t let them think they’re talking to you. Why don’t you have him go round pretending to sell insurance? Insurance against loss? They’ll all be interested in that. They’ll want to know what it covers. It would at least get them talking. And then he might be able to lead them on. He’s good,’ said Rosa, looking unforgivingly at the pile of packages beside her, ‘at leading people on.’
Owen sent them off in an arabeah, the universal one-horse cab of Cairo, and settled down to wait for the bill. You could wait a long time for that and meanwhile his eyes wandered relaxedly over the scene in front of him. The Ataba-el-Khadra was the meeting place of two worlds. The Musky led straight up from the Old City and you went down it if you were a European wanting to visit the bazaars, or came up it if you were a native intending to visit the shops in the European quarter or, more likely, catch a tram. The Ataba was the terminus for most of Cairo’s tram routes and at any hour of the day or night the square was full of trams, native horse-drawn buses, arabeahs and camels bringing forage for the horses. It was also full of street hawkers selling brushes (why?), ice-cream, lemonade, water, sponges, loofahs, canes (no young effendi from one of the big offices was properly dressed unless he carried a cane), hats (the pot-like tarboosh of the Egyptian) and sugar for instant consumption. The two biggest industries, however, were selling pastries and selling Nationalist newspapers. Cairenes, lacking confidence, perhaps, in their public-transport system, believed in stocking up before embarking on a journey. But they also believed in not making a journey at all but just sitting around, and when they sat around, they liked to sit in a café and read scurrilous Nationalist newspapers. Just behind the Ataba were the big offices of Credit Lyonnais and the Mixed Tribunals and beyond them the headquarters of the Anglo-Egyptian Bank, and the countless young men who worked in them were all avid Nationalists.
Owen looked around at the crowded café and thought: if other cafés, why not this one?
He knew the proprietor of the café and beckoned him over.
‘Tell me, Yasin,’ he said. ‘Do you pay protection?’
‘Not yet,’ said the proprietor.
‘Is that because they have not asked? Or because you have not agreed?’
‘If they asked,’ said Yasin, diplomatically but evasively, ‘I would reply: I need no protection, for the Mamur Zapt sits every night at my tables.’
The first stage of the café evening was coming to an end and at several tables people were standing up and shaking hands. It was time to be firm about that bill. Or perhaps, just before he left, an apéritif?
‘How about an apéritif?’ said a familiar voice, and Paul dropped into a chair beside him.
‘I reckon you owe me one,’ said Owen, ‘after that meeting this morning.’
‘Bloody awful, wasn’t it? It’s high time the Army went on manoeuvres. Preferably at the bottom of the Red Sea.’
‘What’s all this business about unifying the policing? I don’t like the sound of it.’
‘It won’t get anywhere. The Old Man will kill it dead.’
Paul was one of the Consul-General’s aides and frequently, as this morning, chaired meetings on his behalf.
‘Will he, though? If they really push?’
‘They’ll only get his back up. He’ll see it as trespassing.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘It won’t get anywhere. At the end of the day, the Old Man’s a
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