The Men Behind by Michael Pearce Read Free Book Online Page B

roughhouses.”
    “McPhee?”
    McPhee was the Assistant Commandant of the Cairo Police.
    “Used to knocking people around, certainly. But is he mature? He always strikes me as rather prim. Puritanical, too. I don’t think he and Roper would get on.”
    “I don’t think I’d get on with him either from what you say.”
    “Ah, but you have the brains to subdue personal feeling in the call of duty.”
    “I don’t think—”
    “The Old Man does. Owen’s just the chap, he said.”
    “I’ll bet.”
    “True. He thinks it requires a political touch, you see. And he has a high regard for your political touch.”
    “Why the hell does it require a political touch?”
    “Because Roper has powerful friends. He’s been sent out here by some Syndicate or other who are interested in the Streeter Concession.”
    “Emeralds? I wouldn’t have thought there was enough of them to interest anyone big.”
    “I wouldn’t have thought so either. However, the Khedive does. The prospect of money, any money, is enough to send him into a tizzy. And the Old Man is just playing along. If the Syndicate finds there are more emeralds than Streeter thinks, then that’s good. Good for the Syndicate, certainly, good for Egypt, possibly. If it doesn’t, then at least the subject will have occupied the Khedive’s mind for a time and kept him out of the Old Man’s hair. So that would be good too. I don’t know about the emeralds, but Roper’s certainly valuable property. And has to be guarded.”
    “Oh Christ,” said Owen resignedly.
    “Please please please please. And if that’s not enough, the Old Man says it’s an order.”
    Owen made one last attempt.
    “How about the Army? Surely some young officer—?”
    “Confined to barracks,” said Paul. “You suggested it. Remember?”
     
    So that evening Owen found himself escorting the impossible Roper round Cairo’s night spots. They started with the dancing girls since that was where Roper wanted to start: “The best, mind, the best.” Owen took him at his word and led him to a place below the Citadel, since that was the quarter where the Ghawazi gypsies lived, who provided the best dancing girls in the country.
    Roper was not, however, interested in the finer points so they moved on to the Sharia Wagh el Birket. The Sharia was picturesque in its way. One side of it was taken up by arcades with dubious cafés beneath them. The other side was given over to the Ladies of the Night. All the upper rooms had balconies; and every balcony had a Lady.
    They drooped alluringly over the woodwork and because the street was so ill-lit, indistinct suggestion prevailed over close analysis. The men sitting at the tables of the cafés opposite gathered only a heady impression of light draperies trailing exotically from lofty balconies under the deep night blue of Egypt, while from the rooms behind lamps with rose-colored shades extended diffuse invitation.
    “I like a bit of class,” said Roper, impressed.
    They went into a club beneath the balconies and watched a plump girl doing a belly dance.
    “God, man, look at that!” breathed Roper.
    Aware of his interest, the plump girl wobbled closer. Although inexpert, she had mastered sufficient of the traditional art to give the impression of being able to move the four quarters of her abdomen independently. Roper, considerably the worse for wear by this time, made a grab at her.
    The girl, used to such advances, evaded him with ease. Her tummy settled down to a steady, rhythmic rotation.
    Roper made another lunge. This time he caught her by the wrist.
    “Not here, sweetie!” said the girl. “Upstairs.”
    She led Roper away.
    Owen beckoned the barman over.
    “It would be a mistake if too much happened to him. OK?”
    The barman nodded and disappeared into an inner room.
    A moment or two later he reemerged and took up his position impassively. However, a glass suddenly materialized beneath Owen’s arm.
    “For the Mamur Zapt,” the waiter