The Mingrelian Conspiracy. Michael Pearce

      

      HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

      1 London Bridge Street

      London SE1 9GF

       www.harpercollins.co.uk

      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.

      All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks

      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

      Contents

       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

1

      ‘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