The Mingrelian Conspiracy by Michael Pearce Page A

more properly indulge their taste for the melodramatic. There were dozens of such clubs in Cairo and no dashing young effendi could afford to admit that he had never been to one.
    Most of the clubs were heavily Nationalist and some were revolutionary. Of these, a small minority was committed to violent action now and sought to finance their activities by engaging in the protection racket.
    ‘I don’t know their name,’ said the café owner.
    ‘It would help me a lot. It could help you a lot.’
    ‘Help me to get my neck broken. No thanks.’
     
    Another café, later. This was the life, Owen decided. It had always been a desire of his to obliterate completely the line between work and play, so that work would seem like play and play would carry the moral justification of work. In Cairo, where business was habitually transacted in cafés, that was easy. You had to meet a colleague? Where better than in a café? Offices were hot and hard edged, uncongenial to the Arab, who liked to pour the syrup of emotion over everything. They lacked conviviality, whereas to the Arab, conviviality was all.
    At the table next to him two men stood up, shook hands, picked up their decorated leather briefcases and left. They had been discussing a contract for the delivery of sesame. The man remaining turned immediately, greeted some acquaintance at another table, pulled his chair across and lunged into an animated discussion of the merits of some Ghawazee singers at a place near the Clot Bey. So easily did business turn to pleasure. So, too, did it turn to politics. At the table on his other side some young effendi were arguing hotly about Egypt’s place in the world, asking why cultural importance, as evinced by the constant flood of tourists, was not reflected in political significance.
    Across the tables he suddenly caught sight of Mahmoud and waved an arm. Mahmoud, however, had already seen him and was weaving his way through the tables to join him.
    A relief!‘ he said, dropping into a chair. ‘I was in court all morning. And then some papers I need for tomorrow hadn’t arrived so I spent the afternoon chasing them. And then when they did arrive they weren’t what I wanted, so I had to start all over again. I’ve only just got away!’
    No other lawyer, Owen suspected, whether Egyptian or British, would work through the heat of the Egyptian afternoon. Mahmoud, however, was a perfectionist and couldn’t imagine going into court unless he was absolutely sure of his ground; and absolutely meant absolutely. They talked for a while about the case Mahmoud was engaged on and then Mahmoud asked him what he was busy with.
    Owen told him about the protection racket.
    ‘Cafés, now, is it?’ said Mahmoud. He knew, of course, about the gangs. If Owen’s work reached the stage of prosecution, it would be the Parquet who would handle it.
    Owen nodded.
    ‘A new target. Rather a tempting one,’ he said, looking around. ‘Fat pickings.’
    ‘Political?’ asked Mahmoud. He knew about the clubs, too. Indeed, he almost certainly went to one himself.
    ‘I don’t know. I wish I could find out.’
    ‘From my point of view it doesn’t matter much. Crime is crime.’
    ‘It matters to me. If they’re doing it for money, it ends there. If they’re doing it for political reasons, you ask what it’s going to issue in later. Bombs?’
    ‘You think this new burst of activity might be related to some particular issue that they have in mind?’
    ‘I’m wondering.’
    Mahmoud, interested, sat thinking.
    ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I can see it makes a difference to you. That is because you are always thinking about prevention. Well, that is good. Forestalling violence must always be good. So long as you yourself keep within the law. The law must always be supreme. Even expediency, which is, of course, the justification you can always cite, must bow to the law. Otherwise there is injustice, and that is a worse crime than violence, for violence is