The Mamur Zapt and the Return of the Carpet (12 page)

Daouad
looked at his watch again. He shook hands with Owen and

Fakhri
escorted him to the door. Owen wondered whether he could decently leave
himself.

A voice
behind him said: “No arts pages in
al Liwa
. ”

It was one
of his friends from earlier in the evening.

“A pity,”
said Owen, “especially from your point of view.”

“It would
be a better paper if it did have them. It’s too one-track at the moment.
Boring.”

“That’s
because Daouad is boring,” said another of the earlier party, joining them.

“It’s not
just that. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t.”

“El
Gazzari?” hazarded Owen.

The other
two exchanged grimaces.

“Not that
Jemal’s any better,” one of them said.

“A pity,”
said Owen again. “Fakhri says they’ve got plenty of money.”

“He would.
He’s envious.”

“Where do
they get it from?” Owen asked.
“Party funds?”
“Ah-ha.”
One of the young men laid a finger along his nose
and winked. The other called to a group standing next to them.
“Zeinab!”
A girl turned round. It was the one Owen had
spoken to earlier. “What is it?” she said, coming across to them.

“We want to
know where
al Liwa
gets its money from.”

“Why ask
me?”

“We thought
Raoul might know.”

“Then ask
him,” she said, and walked off.

A tall,
distinguished-looking Syrian with silvery-grey hair came over.

“What’s the
matter?” he said.

“We thought
you could help us,” they said. “We want to know where
al Liwa
gets its
money from.”

The Syrian
looked annoyed. “Why should I know?”

“You’re so
friendly with
al Liwa
. ”

“I’m
friendly with everybody,” the Syrian said.

“I wish you
were friendly with Fakhri,” one of the young men said. “Then I could have a
bigger column.”

“There’s no
money in newspapers,” the Syrian said.

“Except
what people put into them,” one of the young men said. The Syrian looked at him
steadily. “I don’t put money into papers,” he said. “I stick to business.”

He rejoined
the people he had been talking to previously. A little later, Owen saw him leaving,
with the girl.

CHAPTER 6

Understandably,
Owen got into the office late the next day. Nikos and Georgiades were waiting
for him.

Nikos
cocked an eyebrow.

“How
are you feeling?” asked Georgiades.

“Fragile,”
said Owen.

“Serve
you right,” said Nikos vindictively. He had not forgiven Owen the business
about the memo.

Georgiades
clucked his tongue disapprovingly at Nikos and led Owen into his office.

“Coffee!”
he shouted to Yussuf.
“Coffee quickly!
The man is
dying!”

Yussuf
scuttled into the room and poured out a large mug of coffee. He watched
sympathetically as Owen did his best to wrap himself round it: cradling it in
his hands and letting the warmth move up his arms, sucking in the aroma and
then taking a sip and letting it transform itself into a glow in the pit of his
stomach.

Georgiades
took some, too; in case it was catching, he informed Yussuf.

Owen
had not really drunk much the night before. One seldom did at Egyptian parties,
even Europeanized ones. However, he had not left Fakhri’s until it had gone
four and had had only three hours’ sleep.

He
put the mug back on his desk and motioned to Georgiades to draw up his usual
chair.

“OK,”
he said. “Tell me about Ahmed, then.”

“Nineteen,”
said Georgiades, “a student.
Second year at the law school.
Not very good at his studies.
A certain native wit,
his teachers think, but inconsistent. Not very well organized. His work doesn’t
get done.
Too many distractions.”

“Like?”

“Politics.
Spends
too much time hanging around Nationalist headquarters.
Attends meetings.
Distributes leaflets.”
“Speaks?”

“No.
Gets tied up.
His emotion outruns his thinking.”

“Heart’s
in the right place but head isn’t.”

“That’s
the sort of thing.”

“And
how did he come to fall into these bad habits?”

“Before
he went to law school his father sent him to Turkey for six months. The idea
was for him to make contacts which might be useful to him later.
Business, a bit, but mostly the kind of contacts that would help
him with the Khedive.
Nuri’s good at that kind of lobbying. Anyway,
apparently Ahmed didn’t spend much time talking to the kind of people Nuri
wanted him to talk to. Instead, he fell in with a group of Young Turks—officers
in the Army, stationed at Stamboul. He got to talking politics with them. They
were very keen on getting some change in things.
Too keen.
They got put down by the Secret Police and Ahmed had to leave the country in a
hurry. Nuri wasn’t very pleased.”

“And
then he came home to Egypt and thought he’d carry on where they left off?”

“That’s
the general idea.”

“Young
Turk, is he?”

“Not
really.
More Young
Egyptian.”

“Never met that.”

“Treasure
it,” Georgiades invited. “You might not meet it again. He’s on his own, this
boy.”

“What’s
his position? Who’s he against, for a start?”

“The British.”

“I’d
spotted that.”

“The Khedive.
The
Government.
The University.
His
father.
The owner of the café.
He’s anti most
things.”

“Pro anything?”

“Pro
the big ideals,” said Georgiades. “Like, me.
Including
Pan-Islam.
Unlike me.”

“Religious, then?”

Georgiades
shook his head.

“Come
on!” said Owen. “He’s got to be if he’s Pan-Islam!”

“The
boy’s confused.”

“How can you be secular and Pan-Islam?”

“I
told you, the boy’s position is unique.”

“What
the hell!”

“He
has a vision,” said Georgiades, “of a worldwide brotherhood of Arab
Nationalists.
Big, like I said.
Only
misty.”
“Anyone else share this vision?”

“Only
me,” said Georgiades. “He couldn’t persuade the others in the café.”

Big,
sympathetic brown eyes met Owen’s. Georgiades was a marvellous listener. People
would tell him anything: their troubles, their hopes, their dreams, their
worries; the difficulties they had at work, the problems they had with wife,
husband, parents,
children
. Out it would all come
pouring. It was one of the things that made him such a good agent.

“Adopting
for the moment a more limited perspective,” said Owen, “who does he tie up
with? Not el Gazzari, evidently.
Jemal?”

“Not
Jemal either. He’s quarrelled with Jemal. He did offer Jemal his services but
Jemal made some unflattering remark. About rich landlords’ sons, I believe.”

“His
father
is
a rich landlord,” said Owen. “Is he a rich son?”

“I
don’t think he has much money,” said Georgiades. “Nuri keeps him on a tight
rein. He doesn’t trust him.”

“I’ll
bet that helps their relationship.”

Owen
thought for a moment.

“All
the same,” he said, “Nuri keeps him on as his secretary.”

“In
a funny way,” said Georgiades, “I think he loves him. Anyway,” he added, “the
secretarying is pretty nominal.”

The
room was dark and cool. Heavy slatted wooden shutters kept light and heat out.
They were opened only in the evening when the air had become cooler.

“Nuri loves
him,” Owen said. “Does he love Nuri, though?” “Not according to Nuri.”

“But
according to Ahmed?”

“Well,”
said Georgiades, “the boy is misunderstood.”

“Really
he loves his father?”

“Sure,”
said Georgiades, “and hates him.”

He
eased himself back on his chair to free his trousers, which were sticking to
the seat.

“But
not enough to kill him,” he said, “if that’s what you were thinking. He’s not
the sort.”

“That’s
what his sister said.
Half-sister.”

“
You been
doing research into the family, too? Well, that’s
right. He hasn’t got the steel.”

“The
job was bungled,” said Owen.

“That
raises the question,” said Georgiades, “of what the job was.” Their eyes met.

“True,”
said Owen.
“Interesting.”

Nikos
stuck his head into the room.

“Have
you shown it him yet?”

“What?”

Georgiades
took a scrumpled piece of paper out of his pocket and put it on the desk in
front of Owen. It was a handbill such as are given out at political meetings.
It was in Arabic and the heading, printed bold at both the top and the bottom
of the page,
was
Death TO THE Sirdar.

“He
was giving these out to students at the law school yesterday,” said Georgiades.
“He had a couple of hundred of them.”

“Did
you take them off him?”

“Just
the one.
Do you want me to anything about the others?” “Too late now,” said Nikos. “You
should have taken them all while you were at it.”

“But
that would have given me away,” protested Georgiades. “He thinks I’m a supporter.
The only one.”

Nikos
sniffed. “They’ll be all over the law school by now.” “You’d be surprised at
the indifference of people,” Georgiades said. “Business was not exactly brisk.
If you want me to—” he said, turning to Owen.

“No.
It’s not worth bothering.”

Owen
picked up the handbill and examined it. Seditious leaflets were as common in
Cairo as pornographic postcards. It was impossible to control them all and Owen
usually contented himself with confiscating a sample and destroying the
printer’s type. In the case of leaflets considered inflammatory, however, the
working rule was to suppress the run completely. There was not much doubt that
this one was inflammatory, but if it had already been distributed it was too
late. “Have you come across any more of these?” he asked.

“No.”

“It’s
funny no one else is distributing them,” said Nikos.

“Perhaps
he’s the only one dumb enough?” suggested Georgiades. “That might mean the
printer’s not got a proper distribution system set up yet,” said Nikos,
disregarding him. He took the handbill from Owen. “I don’t recognize the
printer,” he said. “Do you?” he asked Georgiades.

Georgiades
shook his head. “He’s new.”

“That
fits,” said Nikos.

“How
did he get in touch with Ahmed?” asked Owen.

“Or
Ahmed with him,” said Georgiades.
“An interesting question.”
He looked at Owen. “Want me to find who printed this?” “Yes,” said Owen, “and
when you do find him, don’t do anything.” “You don’t want me to call on him?”
asked Georgiades, surprised. “Not immediately. Not yet. Put a man on him. Not
too obviously.” He could easily accommodate it within his budget. In Cairo it
was the bribes that were expensive. The men came cheap.

Georgiades
and Nikos had hardly left when Nikos was back on the phone.

“I’ve
got a call for you,” he said. “Guzman. He wants to talk to you about thefts
from Army barracks.”

He
cackled loudly and put Guzman through.

“What
is this I hear about dangerous lapses in military security?” said the harsh
voice.

“I
don’t know what you hear,” said Owen. “Do tell me.”

“Your
memo to the British Agent—”

“I
didn’t know you were on the circulation list,” said Owen.

“You
should have put me on,” said Guzman. “The Khedive is interested.”

“Purely
internal matter,” said Owen smoothly.

“Internal?
Where threats to security are concerned?
Perhaps to the
Khedive himself?
You yourself speak of risk to important people.”
“Not the Khedive, surely?”

He
wondered how Guzman had got hold of the memo. By the same means as Owen got
hold of the Khedive’s internal memos, he supposed. Still, it was disquieting.

“What
are you doing about it?” asked Guzman.

“Setting
up appropriate liaison machinery, reviewing existing security arrangements,
replacing where appropriate by new ones—that sort of thing,” said Owen.

“About
time, too!” snapped the Turk.

“That
is, of course, what the memo argues.”

“But
you are responsible for security.”

“Oh
no,” said Owen. “Not military security. I suggest you talk to the Sirdar.”

And
he’ll bloody sort you out, he said under his breath.

“I
shall,” said Guzman. “Meanwhile, how are you getting on with your own
investigations?”

“Fine,”
said Owen.
“Fine, thanks.”

“Have
you arrested the murderers yet?” “What murderers did you have in mind?” asked
Owen.

“The Nuri murderers.
That
is
your
responsibility, isn’t it?” the Turk added sarcastically.

“Afraid not.
The
Parquet.
The police,” Owen said airily.

“And Security?”

“There
are, indeed, security aspects,” said Owen. “I’m looking into those.
Hence my memo.”

There
was a silence at the other end of the phone. Owen wondered whether Guzman had
rung off. He was about to put the phone down when the Turk spoke again.

“The
Khedive would appreciate more cooperation from the Mamur Zapt.”

Owen
took that, correctly, for a threat.

“You
can assure the Khedive of our fullest cooperation,” he said heartily.

Again
there was a pause.

“I
have not had your report yet,” said Guzman.

“That’s
strange!” said Owen. “I sent it off.”

“To me?”

“Of course.
Perhaps it’s stuck
in your front office?”

“Or
yours. Or perhaps you haven’t written it.”

“Oh
no,” said Owen. “I have certainly written it. I think.”

“I
shall complain to the Agent,” said Guzman, and rang off.

Owen
sighed.

Nikos,
who had been listening throughout, rang through again.

“Why
didn’t you put him on to Brooker?” he asked.

In
this outer part of Cairo the houses were single-storey. A low mud brick wall
screened them and their women from the outside world. Beyond the houses was the
desert, flat, grey, empty, except for a few wisps of thorn bushes.