The Men Behind by Michael Pearce Page A

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    It was the British,” said a tall student fiercely. He had tribal scars and came from the south.
    Owen at first thought that no one was going to demur but then a fat Greek said mildly: “The British are to blame for most things. But not this, surely?”
    “They are, by God!” said the student, banging his hand on the table.
    “How so?”
    “If the British hadn’t been here this wouldn’t have happened,” another student said.
    “We’d still have had to have got rid of the Khedive,” a third student objected.
    “Yes, but that would have been easy,” the second student declared. “He’s only there now because he’s kept there by British bayonets.”
    “We’d still have had to have got rid of him. He wouldn’t have gone easily. Those old men around him would have seen to that. We’d have had to force him out.”
    “With bombs?” asked the Greek. He seemed on good terms with the students even though he plainly wasn’t one himself. He had come with them and they were already discussing the incident when they entered the café.
    “If necessary,” the third student said.
    “We’d have used arguments first.” This was the second student, who was clearly more moderate than the others.
    “They never work,” said the third student contemptuously.
    “You’ve got to do it by argument,” said the fat Greek. “Otherwise you can’t object if they throw bombs at you when you’re in power.”
    “If we were in power they wouldn’t
want
to throw bombs at us.”
    The Greek smiled gently.
    “That wasn’t what I meant,” said the tall student who had spoken first, the one with the tribal scars.
    “What did you mean?” inquired the Greek.
    “The British did it. No, really did it. They planted the bomb.”
    “In a student café?”
    “Yes, yes,” the earnest faces chorused.
    “Why would they want to do that?”
    “Because we’re the people they fear.”
    “We are in the front rank of the revolutionary struggle.”
    “We are the point of the knife,” said the student with tribal scars.
    “Yes, but even so—”
    “Don’t you see? If they break us, they break the revolution.”
    “And so they planted the bomb?”
    “Yes.”
    “It seems a drastic solution.”
    “We’ve got them worried.”
    “I’m sure you have. Even so! A bomb!”
    “The British are bastards.”
    “They certainly are,” agreed the Greek. “Even so, a bomb!”
    “We’ll pay them back.”
    The Greek, though, was still doubtful.
    “Why did they pick that café? he asked. ”Was it a headquarters or something?”
    “I don’t think so. It was just where we went between lectures.”
    “I wasn’t thinking of you. I was wondering if someone else used the café. You know, someone they might want to get rid of.”
    “Such as?”
    “Well, a Society, say.”
    “Lots of Societies use it.”
    “Yes, but was there a particularly active one?”
    “What do you mean—active?”
    “Well, there have been a lot of incidents lately. Was there anyone at the café who was particularly involved?”
    “Why do you ask?”
    “Because that would explain it,” said the Greek. “I mean, if the British thought there was somebody dangerous there, that might explain why they left the bomb.” Sympathetic brown eyes gazed trustingly at the students. He was obviously a bit naïve but didn’t seem to intend any harm.
    “It would explain it,” said the more moderate student. “I don’t think there was anyone there like that, though.”
    “We wouldn’t tell you if there was,” said the scarred student.
    “Oh? No, of course not. Quite right, too.”
    The Greek backed off hurriedly. He wasn’t really nosey, he was just a bit childlike.
    “Well,” he said, “one thing’s certain anyway. You won’t be using that café again.”
    “No,” said the scarred student, “we’ve got to use places like this.” He waved a dismissive hand.
    “What’s wrong with this?” demanded one of the other customers, lowering his