The Mingrelian Conspiracy

2

Later the same day Owen had moved on to the second stage of the café evening and was comfortably enjoying an after-dinner coffee outside a crowded Arab café when an orderly, who knew his habits, brought him a hurried message from the Deputy Commandant of Police. It said:

Can you get down to the Ezbekiyeh quick? Trouble at a café. I’ve got my hands full at the Citadel. McPhee.

Trouble at a café, thought Owen. Christ, they’re keeping on the go. But when he got to the place he found it was nothing to do with protection but just an ordinary common or garden incident such as disfigured Cairo’s streets most weekends. The Ezbekiyeh contained a number of houses of ill repute and was much frequented by British soldiers. Opposite the balconies from which scantily dressed ladies suggested their all were some very low-class cafés in which yet insufficiently aroused clients could sit and gaze.

And drink. Which was exactly what a bunch of Welsh Fusiliers had been doing until they had spotted at the next café a group of the Duke of Cornwall’s Light. Relations between the regiments were not cordial, a matter, apparently, of the condition in which the DCLI had once left some barracks when the Welsh were due to move in, and merry banter was exchanged. As the evening wore on, and more drink was consumed, the banter became less merry. Remarks were made which, the Welsh considered, reflected on their nation (‘Couldn’t kick a ball near the posts, never mind through them’) and they had risen to defend theirs and their country’s honour. In the ensuing fracas a surprising number of bottles had been broken and a considerable amount of furniture damaged; so, too, had been a considerable number of soldiers.

The police had been summoned and a constable had indeed arrived but had wisely confined himself to the role of a spectator. When he saw Owen he fell in – behind him – with considerable relief.

Owen had no great desire to get involved in a brawl either. He doubted very much if the contestants were in a condition in which they could respond to the voice of command, much less a civilian voice of command; and then what would he do? He advanced slowly down the street towards them.

The fighting seemed, fortunately, to have reached a slight lull. Those still on their feet paused for a moment, breathing heavily. They were just about to resume, however, when a voice came sharply from the other end of the street: ‘Stop that at once!’

The combatants looked up, surprised.

A slight, smartly dressed man came out of the darkness towards them.

‘Stop that at once! Stand apart!’

‘Blimey!’ said one of the soldiers incredulously. ‘A Gyppie!’

‘Bloody hell!’

“Ere,’ said another voice, ‘what do you think you’re doing? Ordering us around?’

‘He needs bloody straightening out.’

‘He bloody does!’

They began to move towards him.

Owen, in a fury now, and forgetting himself, started forward.

‘Cut that out! None of that! Get back! Get back at once!’

‘Christ!’ said one of the soldiers. ‘Here’s another one!’

‘He’s bloody British, though.’

‘I am bloody British,’ snapped Owen, ‘and tomorrow morning I’ll have you bloody lot on jankers. I’ll have you bloody running round and round the parade ground until your bloody balls drop off –’

‘He speaks a bit like an officer,’ said one of the men doubtfully.

‘What’s he in civvies for?’

‘Must be off duty.’

‘– and drop on the ground and lie there till they fry – ‘raged Owen.

The men, impressed, stopped fighting.

‘That was lovely!’ said one of the Welshmen. ‘A bit poetic!’

A group of men in uniform suddenly appeared at the end of the street.

‘Christ!’ said one of the soldiers. ‘We’re for it! It’s the jelly-babies!’

‘What’s going on?’ shouted a voice that was vaguely familiar.

The Military Police came down the street.

‘What’s going on?’

Owen recognized the voice now. It was Shearer.

‘These men have been disturbing the peace,’ said the Egyptian.

‘Oh, have they? We’ll soon see about that! Get their names, sergeant!’

‘I would like a copy, please,’ said the Egyptian.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘It would save me having to do it for myself.’

‘I’m handling them,’ said Shearer. ‘It’s no concern of yours.’

‘I’m afraid it is,’ said the Egyptian.

‘Oh?’ said Shearer. ‘And who the hell are you?’

‘Can I introduce you?’ said Owen, stepping forward. ‘Mr Mahmoud El Zaki, Captain Shearer. Mr El Zaki is a member of the Parquet and is, presumably, the officer investigating this case.’

If so, it would be very speedy. In Egypt the police had no powers of investigation. They merely reported a case of suspected crime to the Department of Prosecutions of the Ministry of Justice, the Parquet, which then assigned one of its lawyers to conduct the investigation.

‘There is no case,’ said Shearer. ‘It’s an internal matter for the Army.’

‘I’m afraid not,’ said the Egyptian. ‘Since the incident has been formally reported a file will have been already opened.’

‘I suggest you close it, then.’

‘That will not be possible.’

Shearer looked at Owen.

‘I’m afraid he’s right. Once the process has been formally initiated it rolls on until it’s formally closed.’

‘How do I go about getting it formally closed?’

‘A request has to go in from the administration. Get your people to contact Paul Trevelyan.’

Shearer made a note of the name.

‘He’s the chap who was chairing the meeting this morning,’ said Owen.

Shearer frowned.

‘Meanwhile,’ said Owen, pointedly, ‘you are obliged to cooperate with the Parquet.’

‘The names, please,’ said the Egyptian.

Shearer gave in with an ill grace.

‘Give him a copy when you’ve finished,’ he said to the sergeant. ‘You lot,’ he said, turning on the soldiers, ‘had better get back to barracks. You’re a bloody disgrace. I’ll deal with you in the morning.’

‘Better send them separately,’ advised Owen. ‘Otherwise they’ll start fighting again.’

‘They’d better bloody not! You’re right, though, it’s best to make sure. You lot,’ he said to the DCLI, ‘get started. Sergeant, take half your men and go with them. You shower,’ he said to the Fusiliers, ‘start in ten minutes. Corporal, see they don’t cause any more trouble.’

‘The list, sir,’ said the sergeant, giving it to the Egyptian. He did not normally reckon to say ‘sir’ to Egyptians but this situation seemed a bit complicated, and then there was the other funny bloke standing by whom Shearer seemed to listen to.

‘Thank you.’ The Egyptian hesitated. ‘Are you not going to take the names of witnesses?’ he asked, puzzled. ‘You spoke of Army legal processes.’

‘Not necessary, I think,’ said Shearer.

The Egyptian raised an eyebrow, then shrugged. He took out a notebook and went over to the owner of the Fusiliers’ cafe.

‘Will you want to talk to me?’ asked Owen.

‘If you wouldn’t mind,’ said the Egyptian, over his shoulder.

Shearer frowned.

‘I don’t think that’s right,’ he objected. ‘You ought not to be called on to give evidence against our own people. It puts you in an awkward position.’

‘Ah!’ said Owen. ‘I’m used to that!’

Shearer hesitated and then, as the Egyptian did not appear to be disposed to go at once to Owen, which was what Shearer half expected, said good night and went after the departed DC LI.

Owen found himself standing next to the Fusiliers.

‘Excuse me, sir,’ said one of them, recognizing a countryman. ‘Where are you from?’

‘Machen.’

‘Are you, indeed, sir? I’m from Caerphilly.’

‘And I’m from Llanbradach, sir,’ put in another of the Fusiliers.

‘I know it well,’ said Owen.

‘And I know Machen, sir. My aunt is Mrs Roberts, of the Post Office, sir.’

‘Mrs Roberts?’ It was a hundred years since Owen had been in Wales. But vague memories of his childhood began to stir. ‘I remember her, I think. How is she?’

‘Not very well, sir. She’s getting on a bit now. She’s more or less given up the Post Office. She leaves it mostly to Blodwen now.’

‘Blodwen?’

‘Her daughter, sir. You remember her?’

‘I think I do. A tiny little thing?’

‘Not so tiny, now, sir.’

‘She’s married, sir,’ said another of the Fusiliers.

‘Heavens! Well, it was a while ago. I left for India when I was eighteen.’

‘We thought you’d been in the Army, sir. It was the way you spoke.’

The corporal came up.

‘All right, you lot,’ he said. ‘On your way!’

‘Sorry about the bother, sir,’ said one of the Fusiliers as they left. Those English bastards called us Welsh bastards!’

‘Well, there’s no need for you to rise like a fish!’

‘No, sir.’ They sounded, however, unconvinced.

‘Nice fishing at Machen, sir!’ one of them called out as they left.

The Egyptian came across to Owen as soon as they were gone.

‘Have I got it right?’ he said. ‘They are also from the Pays de Galles?’

Professional Egyptians, as well as upper-class Egyptians, tended to speak French more readily than they did English. Many of them had been to France for their education. Mahmoud El Zaki had not. He had done all his training in the Khedivial School of Law. The Egyptian legal system, however, was heavily based on the French and the whole legal culture was strongly French.

‘That’s right,’ said Owen. ‘It’s a Welsh regiment.’

‘I’m surprised you keep them together,’ said the Egyptian. ‘Isn’t there the risk of rebellion?’

‘No, no, no. It’s not like that. The English conquest of Wales was so long ago that most people have forgotten it. Well, almost.’

The Egyptian was not entirely convinced.

‘There seemed to me to be animosity,’ he said. ‘Those other men were English, yes? An English regiment?’

‘Some Cornishmen might dispute it, but yes. The conquest of Cornwall was even longer ago than the conquest of Wales.’

The Egyptian shook his head in wonderment.

‘I thought the British were all the same,’ he said. ‘Of course, I knew that you were from the Pays de Galles. You had told me. But I had thought that you were an exception. British is not English, then?’

‘Oh, no. It is Welsh and Scottish and Irish and –’

‘Cornish?’

‘If you go far enough back. And other things as well.’

The Egyptian looked thoughtful.

‘It sounds like Cairo to me.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I won’t take up your time now. Why don’t we have a coffee somewhere? Sidi Hassim’s, in an hour’s time?’

The trouble with the Cairo late-night café culture was that after the evening came the morning. Sleeping outside in the garden, because of the heat, Owen habitually awoke with the sun, no matter what time he’d gone to bed the night before. The result was that he’d normally passed his peak for the day by about nine, which was, of course, when the committees usually began, and after that it was all downhill. This morning he was present in the flesh but fragile in the spirit.

‘We’re always having meetings,’ he complained to Paul.

‘Yes, I know,’ said Paul, ‘and we could do without this one. However, a formal request has come in, or is about to come in, from Captain Shearer which, I think, needs discussion.’

‘Hasn’t it come in yet?’ said the major, equally fed up at having to be present. ‘If it’s not come in, why not wait until it does?’

‘Because that would rule out some of the options open to us.’

‘Such as?’

‘Not putting in a formal request.’

‘The Army does not change its mind,’ said Shearer stiffly.

‘Keeping it informal, you mean?’ asked the major. ‘Well, that’s usually best. Keep things off paper.’

‘I agree with you in principle, sir,’ said Shearer. ‘In fact, that’s exactly what I tried to do last night. Only this other Johnny said that things had already got past that stage.’

‘Who is the other Johnny?’ asked Paul.

‘Mahmoud,’ said Owen.

‘Mahmoud El Zaki? The Parquet’s already involved? This makes it more difficult.’

‘Presumably there was a complaint,’ said Owen.

‘Actually,’ said McPhee, Deputy Commandant of the Cairo Police, present this morning, ‘there were two.’

‘And they’ve assigned an officer already? That’s pretty quick off the mark!’

‘I think they’ve got a duty-officer system,’ said Owen, ‘and Mahmoud was probably the lawyer on duty. Anyone else would have left it till morning.’

‘It had to be Mahmoud!’ said Paul, vexed.

‘Difficult man, eh?’ said the major.

‘That was certainly my impression last night, sir,’ said Shearer.

‘Difficult?’ said Paul. ‘No. Conscientious.’ He turned to Owen. ‘You know Mahmoud,’ he said. ‘It was only last night. They can hardly have got started. Do you think that there’s any chance – ?’

‘No,’ said Owen. ‘He’ll see it as a matter of principle.’

‘Well, it is a matter of principle,’ said Shearer. ‘Does the Army come under Egyptian law?’

‘Can’t have that!’ said the major, aghast.

‘I absolutely agree, sir,’ said Shearer. ‘And therefore I think the issue must be faced. Settle it once and for all. That was exactly my thinking last night. If the Johnnies want it formal, then let them have it formal; and see if they like the consequences!’

‘Hear, hear!’ said the major.

‘Look,’ said Paul, ‘the only way we get by in Egypt is by not facing issues. We take damned good care to see that issues are not faced.’

‘Chickening out!’ said Shearer contemptuously.

‘Damned shillyshallying!’ said the major.

‘And this is for a very good reason,’ said Paul; ‘the ground we stand on is shaky.’

‘Not while the Army’s here!’ said Shearer.

‘By God, no!’ said the major.

‘I’m thinking of the formal, legal grounds by which we justify our presence here.’

‘Well,’ said Shearer, ‘I don’t think we need to think too much about that. We’re here, aren’t we?’

‘It’s a question of how we appear in the eyes of other countries.’

‘Other countries!’ said the major dismissively.

‘I agree, sir,’ said Shearer. ‘The Army will look after that!’

‘One of the complaints,’ said McPhee, ‘came from the Russian Chargé.’

‘Russian Chargé!’ said Paul.

‘Apparently the soldiers assaulted him.’

‘God Almighty!’ said Paul. ‘It’s already an international incident!’

‘Gentlemen. We should not lose our heads –’ began Shearer.

‘Heads?’ said Paul. ‘Heads? And what do you think will happen to yours when the Commander-in-Chief, the Prime Minister back in London, learns that the country’s been committed to war through the actions of a junior captain?’

‘Perhaps we should think again,’ said the major. ‘Maybe it would be best after all if the whole thing was handled informally.’

‘Too late,’ said Paul. ‘It’s in the hands of the Parquet now. The Nationalists will have us over a barrel. They’ll exploit it internationally. Even your ambassador can’t walk along the street without being bloody jumped on by British soldiers.’

‘We’ll confine them to barracks,’ said the major. ‘Keep them off the streets for a time. Can’t we hush this thing up?’

‘Not a chance!’ said Paul, beginning to enjoy himself. ‘The Parquet’s Nationalist. It’s rubbing its hands at all the trouble it’ll be able to cause.’

‘It wouldn’t be possible – would it – to get the Chargé to withdraw his complaint?’ said the major desperately. ‘I mean, they wouldn’t be able to go ahead then, would they? They’d have to, well, drop it.’

Paul affected to consider.

‘I could go and grovel to the Chargé, I suppose,’ he said unwillingly.

‘Well, look –’

‘I could give it a go. There’d have to be a written apology, of course.’

‘You could manage that, couldn’t you?’

‘It wouldn’t have to be from me. It would have to be from you.’

‘The Army?’ The major swallowed; swallowed again. ‘I think that could be arranged.’

‘And Captain Shearer withdraws his request?’

‘In the circumstances,’ mumbled Shearer.

‘Right, then!’ said Paul, triumphant, beginning to gather his papers. ‘We –’

‘Excuse me,’ said McPhee, the Deputy Commandant, with his usual slightly anxious old-world courtesy, ‘haven’t you forgotten something? There was another complaint.’

‘My God!’ said Paul. ‘It’s all Europe now!’

‘No, no,’ said McPhee seriously. ‘It’s not from the Diplomatic this time.’

‘Who is it, then?’

‘The leader of the Mingrelian community.’

There was a little silence.

‘What did you say?’

‘Mingrelian.’

‘Oh, Mingrelian, Mingrelian!’ said Paul, starting up. ‘My God!’ he said, catching Owen’s eye, ‘Mingrelian!’

‘Mingrelian!’ responded Owen loyally, seeing that something of the sort was required but not, however, having the faintest idea what it was all about, never, indeed, having heard of anything Mingrelian before. ‘Mingrelian!’ he said, shaking his head.

‘Them above all!’ said Paul, all dejection.

‘Look,’ said the major apprehensively, ‘if they’re a particularly difficult lot –’

‘Difficult!’ said Paul. ‘Difficult! Not content with having provoked a world war, you bring out on to the streets the most bloodthirsty, intransigent –’

‘Armed uprising?’ said Shearer. ‘We can handle them!’

‘Both of them?’ said Paul. ‘At once?’

‘We’ll cope,’ said the major. ‘We’ll cope.’ He looked, however, distinctly worried. ‘Two fronts,’ he said. He shook his head. ‘Don’t like it,’ he said.

‘None of us like it,’ said Paul bravely. ‘We have to look issues in the face, though. There may be still time, however. I’ll go straight to the Russian Chargé and grovel. Oh, no, wait a minute. First, we need a letter of apology.’

‘I’ll see to it,’ said the major.

‘Right. Then keep your men off the streets –’

‘Lie low for a bit. Right, I get the picture,’ said Shearer.

‘And persuade the Army to refrain, at least for a time, from assaulting the minority of the population it hasn’t so far assaulted.’

‘Right,’ said the major.

Paul looked pleased.

‘That’s it, then?’

The complaint from the Mingrelians,’ McPhee gently prompted.

‘Ah, yes. Well,’ said Paul, looking at Owen; ‘something for the Mamur Zapt, isn’t it?’

‘Thanks very much,’ said Owen.

‘Paul,’ he said worriedly, as they walked away together. ‘Who the hell are the Mingrelians?’

Don’t ask me,’ said Paul. ‘Never heard of them.’

‘Just bring me the Mingrelian file, will you?’ said Owen casually, glancing up at Nikos as the Official Clerk entered the room.

‘The what file?’

‘Mingrelian.’

Nikos stood for a moment, stunned. He liked to claim he had a file on everything. He believed he had the universe under control. Now the earth had moved.

‘Mingrelian. Oh yes, Mingrelian,’ he said, recovering quickly. He stopped in the doorway. ‘It may take a bit of time,’ he warned.

‘I’ll bet,’ said Owen.

Nikos went out grim-faced.

‘Do you realize what you’ve done?’ demanded Georgiades.

‘He hasn’t got a file!’ chortled Owen.

‘He’ll have one soon. Those people were happily getting on with their lives unknown to the world. Now you’ve dragged them into history!’

‘Ever heard of them?’

Georgiades rubbed his chin. There was a faint rasp. It was difficult to shave close in the heat.

‘The name seems vaguely familiar. Something to do with the Church?’

‘The Church!’ said McPhee, shocked. ‘Really, Owen! And you the son of a minister! It is true that they are members of the Orthodox communion at one remove, so to speak, since the Georgian Church is autocephalous –’

‘Georgia? Is that where they come from?’

‘The Caucasus, rather. They are a separate linguistic community. Linguistic, not religious. How could you think, Owen – ?’ said McPhee reproachfully.

Later in the morning Owen took pity on Nikos.

‘There’s been a complaint, apparently, about the behaviour of some British soldiers last night. It came from the leader of the Mingrelian community. Can you get me the details? At least the name.’

‘The Parquet?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll go directly to them,’ said Nikos, straight-faced. ‘It’ll be quicker than finding the file.’

Owen guessed that he was getting near the place when he began to see increasing numbers of Albanians and Montenegrins standing about at street corners wearing national dress. It was not that the Caucasus was part of the Balkans, just that in Cairo certain groups of communities tended to stick together and the nationalities of the Eastern Mediterranean constituted one such group. Not all of them, however, insisted on wearing national dress. That was a peculiarity of the Albanians and Montenegrins, adopted, Owen thought, chiefly because it was a lot less strenuous to stand about all day in picturesque dress in front of the tourists’ hotels charging for photographs than to work for a living. Anyway, they looked splendid chaps in their high boots and their billowing trousers and with a whole armoury stuck in their belts.

‘The house of Sorgos?’

The Montenegrin thought for a moment and then took Owen familiarly by the arm and led him down a narrow alley and out into a small close of very old houses, so old that they were threatening to slide into each other and their heavy, wooden meshrebiya windows bowed down almost to the ground. The Montenegrin stopped before the door of one of them.

‘The house of Sorgos,’ he said, saluted and left.

Owen knocked on the door.

It was opened by one of the most beautiful women Owen had ever seen.

He was quite taken aback, firstly because he had expected the door to be opened by a servant – few houses were so poor as to be without a servant of some sort – and secondly because she was unveiled. He had grown so used to women being in veils that now he was disconcerted to see one without one. What sort of woman would come to the door without a veil on?