The Mingrelian Conspiracy by Michael Pearce

in front of him.
    ‘I like coffee,’ said Owen.
    ‘You don’t think you could enjoy it somewhere else?’
    ‘I especially like it here.’
    ‘You get in the way, you know.’
    ‘You mean, the men won’t come while I’m here? Isn’t that a good thing?’
    ‘I don’t know. They’ll come again when you’re not here.’
    ‘I could leave someone with you.’
    ‘They’re big blokes.’
    ‘This is a big bloke.’
    ‘Hanging around all day drinking coffee?’
    ‘He could work for you. In fact, it would be better if he did. You could say he had come up from the country.’
    ‘Why don’t you just go away?’ said the café owner.
    ‘I’m like the other lot. I’m never going to go away.’
    The café owner cursed softly.
    ‘You get me down,’ he said. ‘You really do.’
    ‘I’m your only way out,’ said Owen. ‘You’ll be glad of me. Later.’
    ‘A lot later,’ said the café owner. ‘When I’m in heaven.’
    ‘Even before. It’s just the next bit that’s hard.’
    ‘Why pick the hard way?’
    ‘Because if you pick the other way, it never ends. You don’t just pay once. You go on paying. You pay all the time. They come more often. And after a while they ask for more. And then more. And then more still. In the end you’re working only for them. All you’ve built up is theirs. Look, I know what it takes to build up a place like this, what it costs you. It costs you years of your life and you’ve only got one life. Going to give it all away, now, are you?’
    ‘I’m not giving anything away,’ said the café owner. ‘But I’m still thinking.’
    ‘Think on. Take the long view. You’ve had to take the long view, haven’t you, all your life? Otherwise you’d never have got where you are. Think long now. My way is hard at first but then there’s an end to it. The other way is easy today and hard tomorrow. And tomorrow goes on for a long time.’
    ‘The only thing is,’ said the café owner, ‘that I like the idea of there being tomorrows.’
    ‘The man I put in is always there. He sleeps under the table. He doesn’t go home at night.’ Owen had a sudden pang of conscience. Selim wouldn’t care for this bit. ‘He never leaves you,’ he said, nevertheless, determinedly.
    ‘And he works?’
    ‘A big, strong man.’
    ‘You’re not doing this for my sake,’ said the café owner.
    ‘Of course not. There are other cafés.’
    ‘Why don’t you ask them?’
    ‘I’m asking you. I need someone like you.’
    ‘Stubborn?’
    ‘Greedy,’ said Owen. ‘Greedy to cling on to his own.’
    The café owner laughed.
    ‘Well, you’ve got the right man,’ he said. ‘I don’t believe in giving money away.’
    ‘When it’s hard earned, it’s not easily given.’
    ‘That, too, is true,’ said the man. ‘Well. I’ll think about it.’
    ‘While you’re thinking,’ said Owen, ‘I could be doing something. If you would just give me a start.’
    ‘What is it you want to know?’
    ‘The name.’
    The gangs usually left their name. It was normal, for example, to sign extortion notes. Not that the name in itself meant much. Arab taste for the lurid produced such names as ‘The Red Sword’, ‘Hand of Blood’ or ‘The Red Eye’; but the readiness of the groups to give their names made it easy to ascribe activities to the group and Nikos now had a file on most of them.
    The name would probably be enough to tell Owen what kind of gang he was dealing with. He would probably be able to tell, for example, whether the gang was a straightforward criminal one or whether it was a terrorist one arising out of a political club.
    Cairo seethed with political discussion, most of which took place openly in the cafés. You could have a good argument any night of the week almost anywhere. Some of it, however, took place privately in clubs specially formed for the purpose. These still met in cafés—that was what Cairo cafés were for!— but now it was in an inner room where members could