the jockeying was intense. Factions at court combined and recombined, lobbied and blocked. The Khedive could not make up his mind—had not been able to make up his mind for six weeks now.
‘Can’t you get the stupid idiot to get a move on?’ Owen had complained earlier in the evening to one of the Consul-General’s aides.
‘We’re trying to. The trouble is we can only suggest. He’s the one who has to actually make the appointment. It’s his big moment and he’s savouring every instant of it.’
‘Well, it’s making things bloody difficult.’
Because as the days went by it wasn’t only the tame politicians at court who began to manœuvre. In the political vacuum created by the interregnum other political forces began to stir.
For the first time there was an openly Nationalist Party, small yet but growing in support, growing fast enough to alarm the other political groupings, which began to take on a protective nationalist colouring too.
And beyond them were other groups, less orthodox and less open: fundamentalist groups, bitterly resenting the imposition of a Christian as Prime Minister and determined to prevent it happening again; revolutionary groups eager to throw off hereditary class rule, the rule of the Pashas, as well as the alien rule of the British; the extremist political ‘clubs’ and the secret ‘societies’. Cairo in 1909 was a hotbed for such groups; and in the growing political tension they saw their opportunity.
Incidents began to occur. Hitherto peaceful demonstrations spilled over into violence. Stones were thrown. Bystanders attacked. Vehicles belonging to foreigners were damaged. There came the occasional report of a shop, usually belonging to a Copt, being broken into and set on fire.
There was a more sinister development. One or two senior people reported that on their way to and from work they had been followed. Nothing more than that. Just followed. But in the increasingly jumpy atmosphere that was enough.
Reports of followings flooded in, not just from the British but also from senior Egyptians. In the bar it was muttered that things were getting out of hand. The Consul-General should do something. He was as weak as water. Thank goodness the Army was standing by.
And now had come the thing Owen had been waiting for and fearing: the first shots.
‘It might be nothing to do with it,’ said Garvin. ‘Why would they pick on Fairclough? There are much more obvious targets.’
‘They’re usually guarded.’
‘Only people like the CG and the Khedive. One or two of the Ministers. You don’t have to go as far down as Fairclough. Any Adviser would do.’
All the big Ministries had a British ‘Adviser’ at the top of them, looking over the Minister’s shoulder. It was one of the ways in which Cromer had consolidated his power.
‘The clubs don’t always think like that. From their point of view any Britisher would do.’
‘They’d have to have some reason for choosing him. What reason could there be for choosing Fairclough? Political, that is.’
‘Or any other. The nearest I’ve got to a reason so far is enmity at bridge.’
Garvin laughed and tilted his glass in the direction of a passing waiter. One of the advantages of this being a reception for a European delegation was that alcoholic drinks were being served.
‘I don’t think it will be that. And I don’t think it will turn out in the end to be political either. Go on digging and you’ll find something else.’ There was a touch of condescension in Garvin’s voice.
‘Even if you’re right on this, you won’t be right for long,’ Owen insisted. ‘Things are hotting up. It’s only a question of time. Can’t we get the Khedive to get a move on?’
‘I’ll pass on your views to the CG,’ said Garvin and drifted away.
Putting Owen in his place.
The next day as Owen was walking home he had a distinct feeling that he was being followed.
He told himself that he was a fool, that he was imagining things. But the feeling persisted. He stopped beside a drinking fountain and as the water played into his cupped hands covertly looked behind him. He could see no one. There was only the long, dusty street of the Sharia Masr-el-Atika, completely deserted in the noonday sun. Nevertheless, the feeling persisted.
It was, actually, not uncommon for Owen to be followed. There would often be someone who wanted to have a word with him, to present a petition, make a complaint or lay information against somebody who was too shy to enter the imposing offices at the Bab el Khalk where Owen worked, preferring to wait until they could approach him in the time-honoured manner of the East, face to face, in public, in space which was common and where neither was at a disadvantage.
But this was not like that. Anyone like that would walk just a few paces behind so that the great one would become aware of their presence and when he was so minded turn and address them. But there was no comforting shuffle behind him, just the empty street. And yet the feeling that he was being followed burned into his shoulder-blades.
An old woman was sitting in the dust under the trees, guarding a huge heap of oranges. She was an old friend of Owen’s and he always greeted her, usually stopping to purchase a few oranges to make a drink with. The oranges were large and green and gave off a pungent smell.
‘You’re a strange man,’ she said today.
‘Why, mother?’
‘It’s a strange man who has two shadows.’
Owen thanked her for the warning, bought his oranges and went on.
He left the trees behind him and was walking now between old mameluke houses. Their walls rose directly from the street in a steep unbroken line until high overhead a row of corbels allowed the first floor to project out over the heads of the passers-by. Higher still, heavily-latticed oriel windows carried the harem rooms, where the women lived, a further two feet over the street.
At ground level, though, there was only the high, unbroken line of the wall and the occasional heavy, studded door barred against strangers. All the doors seemed shut. There seemed no escape from the street except that far ahead he could see a break in the line of the houses.
He suddenly felt an intense prickly sensation behind his shoulders.
Just ahead of him he could see a door which was not properly shut. He slowed down, hesitating.
The prickly feeling suddenly became overwhelming. He pushed at the door and then, as it swung back, leaped through it.
The door crashed back against an inside wall and then swung out again. As it closed he jammed his shoulder behind it and held it shut until he could pull the heavy wooden bolts across.
Then, sweating and feeling rather foolish, he stood looking into the inner courtyard.
At this time of day, with the sun directly overhead and the walls offering no shadow, it was, of course, deserted. Along one side, though, was a takhtabosh, a long recess with a carved wooden roof supported in front by pillars, which gave it a cool, cloister-like effect. This was where superior servants might be expected to sit and Owen was slightly relieved to see nobody there.
He walked down the takhtabosh to the other end. As he had hoped, there was a smaller door leading out on to a street beyond. It was one of the oldest tricks in the game in Cairo for a thief pursued by the police to dash in at one door and then immediately out at the other while the police were still requesting permission to enter by the first. Owen had often been thwarted by it himself.
The street beyond was a small back street in which there was nothing but one or two donkeys, hobbled and left to doze. The sand here was worn so fine that it was almost silvery and reflected the sun unbearably into his eyes.
Again Owen hesitated. It would be easy now to slip away through the side-streets. But the Mamur Zapt, Head of Cairo’s