The Mingrelian Conspiracy

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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 1995

Copyright © Michael Pearce 1995

Michael Pearce asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication

Source ISBN: 9780008259426

Ebook Edition © JUNE 2017 ISBN: 9780008257255

Version: 2017-08-31

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Keep Reading

About the Author

Also by Michael Pearce

About the Publisher

‘Once upon a time there was a woman called Rice Pudding and –’

‘One moment,’ said the Chief of the Secret Police: ‘Rice Pudding?’

‘Yes. And one day she was sitting at her window –’

‘Rice Pudding?’ said the Chief of Police warningly.

‘It was a long time ago,’ said the storyteller defensively.

‘Very well. Proceed.’

‘And suddenly she saw, down in the street below, a dervish looking very important and wearing round his neck a huge necklace made of the spouts off clay water jars strung together like beads. “What do you have for sale?” she called down to him. “Names,” he said. “How much does a name cost?” “A hundred piastres.” Now –’

‘Perhaps you could just tell me,’ suggested the Chief of Police, ‘where you had got to?’

‘He had got to the bit,’ said one of the bystanders helpfully, ‘when she had lost her new name and a blind man had found it and tied it up in a sack –’

‘Hey!’ said the storyteller angrily. ‘Who’s telling the story? You or me?’

‘And was just about to carry it up the stairs –’

‘When Mustapha cried out,’ said the constable excitedly, unable to keep quiet any longer.

‘Mustapha?’ said the Chief of the Secret Police, who was having difficulties.

‘From inside the café! I heard him!’

‘Mustapha is the man who was injured?’

‘That’s right, Effendi! While we were listening to the story.’

‘And I heard the cry,’ said the constable. ‘Oh, Effendi, it was a terrible cry! So I rushed at once into the café –’

‘No, you didn’t!’ objected someone.

‘Ahmed, are you looking for trouble?’

‘I’m only saying you didn’t rush in. You stayed right where you were.’

‘We all did,’ said someone else. ‘It was a terrible cry.’

The crowd was pressing forward, eager to help.

‘And then Leila called for help!’

‘And we all rushed in –’

‘Led by me,’ said the constable swiftly.

‘And found Mustapha lying there.’

‘Right!’ said the Chief of the Secret Police. ‘So we’re not in the story now; we’re in what really happened?’

‘Yes, Effendi, that’s right. And there was Mustapha, lying in a pool of blood –’

Owen sighed. ‘What really happened’ was always a relative matter in Cairo. There had been, for instance, no pool of blood. The proprietor of the café had had his legs broken, which was the usual penalty for noncompliance when the gangs made their initial request. He glanced back over his shoulder.

‘Where is Mustapha now?’ he asked.

‘Upstairs, Effendi. The hakim is with him.’

‘Right. Well, I am going in to have a talk with him. In private. So you can all go home. There’ll be nothing for you to see. No more excitement.’

He knew, however, that his words were wasted. The crowd would stay on in the hope of further drama at least until he left and probably long after.

‘Keep them out,’ he said to the constable. ‘I don’t want any company.’

‘Right, Effendi!’ said the constable, taking out his baton with alacrity. When Owen had arrived, the first thing he had had to do was clear the café of all sightseers, which meant the whole neighbourhood. They were all now packed in the street outside, which was jammed from one end to the other.

The constable stationed himself in front of the entrance and swung his arm.