The Mamur Zapt and the Return of the Carpet (13 page)

Mahmoud
met Owen in the open square where the buses turned.

“I
thought it better like this,” he said. “Otherwise you’d never find it.”

He
led Owen up a dark alley which narrowed and bent and doubled back on itself and
soon lost its identity in a maze of other alleys threading through and
connecting the houses. In the poorer suburbs there were no roads. The alleys
were the only approach and these were thick with mud and refuse and excrement.

In
the dark Owen could not see, but he could smell, and as he stumbled along, his feet
skidding and squashing, he could guess. There were, too, the little scurries of
rats.

The only light was from the sky. Out here
there was no reflected glare from the city’s lights and you could see the stars
clearly. The sky seemed quite light compared with the dark shadows of the
alleys.

Occasionally you heard people beyond the
walls and often there was the smell of cooking. Once or twice the voices came
from the roofs where the people had taken their beds and lay out in the evening
cool.

The alleys became narrower and the walls
poorer and more dilapidated. There were gaps in them where bricks had fallen
away and not been
repaired.
You could see the spaces
against the sky.

Some of the bricks had fallen into the
alleyways and there were heaps of rubble and other stuff that Owen had to climb
over or wade through.

They came out into what at first Owen
thought was a small square but in fact
was
a space
where a house had fallen down. He heard Mahmoud talking to someone and then
felt Mahmoud’s hand on his arm gently guiding him along a wall. There was a
small doorway in the wall, or perhaps it was just a gap. Mahmoud slipped
through it and drew Owen after him.

They were in a small yard. Over to one side
there was a little oil lamp on the ground, around which some women were
squatting. They looked up as Mahmoud approached but did not move away, as women
usually would. They wore no veils, and in the light from the lamp Owen could
see they were Berberines, their faces marked and tattooed with the tribal
scars.

He followed Mahmoud into the house. There
was just the single room. In one corner there was a low fire from which the
smoke wavered up uncertainly to a hole in the roof, first wandering about the
room and filling the air with its acrid fumes. On the floor was another oil
lamp, and beside it two people were sitting, one of them a policeman. The other
man looked up. He was gaunt and emaciated and plainly uneasy.

Mahmoud muttered something and the policeman
left the room. They squatted down opposite the other man.

The smell of excrement was strong in the
air. So was another smell, heavy, sickly, sweet. Owen recognized it to be
hashish.

The man waited patiently.

Eventually Mahmoud said: “You travel the
villages?”

“Iwa,” said the man.
“Yes,
effendi.”

“You
take them the drug?”

“Yes, effendi.”

“Do
you take them just
the
drug, or do you also take them the one that
chills?”

The
man’s face twitched slightly. “Sometimes I take them the one that chills,” he
said in a low voice. He put out his hand pleadingly.

“But not often, effendi.
Sometimes—just for
a rich omda—that is all.”

“It
is bad,” said Mahmoud sternly. “It is bad. Nevertheless, that is not our
concern tonight. Our concern is with something other. Tell us about the other
and we shall not ask questions about this. Do you understand?”

“I
understand, effendi,” said the man submissively.

“Good.
Then let us begin with what you have already said. You travel the villages with
the drug.”

“Yes, effendi.”

“Among them the village that we know.”

“Yes, effendi.”

“And
at that village you sell the drug.”

“Yes, effendi.”

“To all the men?
Do most of the
villagers buy?”

“Most of them.
They work hard,
effendi. This year there is little food. It fills their stomachs,” the man said
quietly.

“And
among the men,” said Mahmoud, “you sell to the one we spoke of?”

“Yes, effendi.”

“Every time?
Or
most times?”

“Since
Ramadan,” said the man, “every time.”

“Little or much?”

“Little, effendi.”

The
man looked at Mahmoud.

“He
is a good man, effendi,” he said. “He would not take it from his children.”

“So
he bought only a little.
But not last time.”

“Last
time,” said the man, “he wanted more.”

“Why
was that? Did he say?”

“He
said that one had given him the means to right a great wrong and that he wished
to strengthen himself that he might accomplish it.” “And what did you say?”

“I
warned him, effendi.” The man spoke passionately, pleadingly.

“I
warned him. I said, ‘The world is full of wrongs. Try to right them and the
world turns over. Better leave it as it is.’ ”

“And
he said?”

The
man looked down. “He said,
effendi, that
a drug-seller
was without honour.”

The
lamp flickered and the shadows jumped suddenly. Then the flame steadied and
they returned to their place.

The
man raised his eyes again.

“I
warned him,” he said. “I told him that the one who had given him the means was
a wrongdoer, for his was not the grudge. That troubled him. He said the one who
had given him the means did not know what he intended. I asked him how could
that
be?
But he would say no more.”

“And
you said no more?”

“And
I said no more.”

“He
had the money.”

“He
had the money,” the man agreed.

He
looked down at the lamp. Mahmoud waited. The silence continued for some
minutes. Owen was not used to squatting and desperately wanted to stretch, but
he knew that the silence was important and dared not break it.

Eventually
the man looked up.

“I
think I saw the man, effendi,” he said diffidently, “the wrongdoer.”

“How
was that?” asked Mahmoud mildly, almost without interest. “It was the day of
the meeting,” said the man. “Afterwards I saw one from outside the village
talking to him.
And then again the next day.
I stayed
in the village that night,” he explained.

“This
one from outside the village,” said
Mahmoud,
“was he
young or old?”

“Young,
effendi,” said the man immediately. “Not much more than a boy.”

“Rich or poor?”

“Rich.
One of the well-to-do.”

“If
we showed a man to you,” said Mahmoud, “could you tell us if it was he?”

The
man looked at him with alarm. “Effendi, I dare not!” he said. “They would kill
me!”

“They?”
asked Owen. It was the only time he spoke.

“When
one acts in a thing like this,” said the man, “one does not act alone.”

“The man
was not alone, then?” said Mahmoud.

“When I saw
him he was alone,” the drug-seller said. “I spoke without meaning.”

“If you saw
him,” said Mahmoud, “you would know him.”

“I would
know him,” the man agreed wretchedly. “But, effendi—” “Peace!” said Mahmoud.
“We will bring you where you will see him but he will not see you. No one will
ever know. I swear it.” “Effendi—” began the man desperately.

“Enough!”
Mahmoud held up his hand.

“Do
this thing for us,” he said, “which no one shall ever know about, and you shall
go in peace. Do not do this thing, and you will never go.”

The man
subsided, shrank into himself. Mahmoud rose. He put his hand gently on the
man’s shoulder.

“It will
soon be over, friend,” he said. “Go in peace.”

“Salaam
Aleikham
, ”
said the man, but automatically.

Owen
followed Mahmoud out into the courtyard. The two policemen came across and
waited expectantly. Mahmoud spoke to them for a couple of minutes and then they
went into the house. They emerged with the slight figure of the drug-seller
between them. Owen and Mahmoud set out along the alleyway with the others
following close behind. In this part of the city it was better to travel as a
party. When they reached the space and light of the main road Mahmoud spoke to
the constables again and then they went off separately, on foot. He and Owen
walked slowly back to where Owen had left his arabeah. “We’re going to find
it’s
Ahmed, aren’t we?” said Owen.

“It begins to
look like that.”

They walked
a little way in silence.

Then
Mahmoud said: “I must say
,
I am a little surprised.”

Owen told
him what Georgiades had found out about Nuri’s son and secretary. Mahmoud
listened with interest.

“It
fits together,” he said.
“Mustafa and the Nationalists,
Mustafa and Ahmed.
Ahmed and the extremists among the
Nationalists, if that leaflet really means anything.
Those
most likely to want to kill Nuri.”
Which made it all the more surprising
the next day when one of Owen’s men reported that Nuri and Ahmed had been seen
visiting
al Liwa’s
offices: together.

CHAPTER 7

“It’s got
to be protection,” said Georgiades and Nikos together. “He’s a rich man,” said
Georgiades.

“A
natural target,” Nikos concurred.

“I
wouldn’t be surprised if several of the clubs were on to him,” said Georgiades.

“They
are,” said Owen. “I’ve seen their letters.”

“There
you are, then.”

“And checked them out.”

“You
got nothing?”

“Nothing.”

“Did
you check the right ones?” asked Georgiades.

“I checked
the ones I was given,” said Owen, and stopped. “Given by Nuri’s secretary,” he
said. “Ahmed.”

“Yes,”
said Nikos, “well …”

“It
wouldn’t have made any difference,” said Georgiades. “He wouldn’t have given it
you, anyway. And, sure as hell, he won’t give it to you now.”

“Nuri
must know,” said Owen.

“Do
you think he would tell, though?”

“He
told me about the other ones.”

“Did
he?” asked Nikos.

Owen
shrugged. “He made no difficulty about showing me the letters.”

“Some of them.”

“Did
he tell you whether he’d paid them off?” asked Georgiades. “No,” said Owen. “He
rather gave me the impression he disregarded them.”

“He
would,” said Nikos.

“Do
you think he pays?”

“Of
course,” said Nikos.

“Invariably,”
said Georgiades.

“Everybody
does,” said Nikos.

“Then
why did they try to kill him?”

“Did
they try to kill him?” asked Georgiades.

Owen looked
at him. “Are you suggesting they didn’t?” Georgiades spread his hands.

“Try
this,” he said, “for size. He didn’t respond at once. So they tried to frighten
him.”

“Mustafa
tried to kill him.”

“It
went wrong,” said Georgiades.

“Why
did it go wrong?” asked Nikos.

“Because they used that moron Ahmed as a
go-between.
He set it up wrongly.”

“Ahmed
would try to extort money from his own father?” asked Owen.

Georgiades
spread his hands again, palms up, open as the Cairo day.
“Why
not?” he said.
“Better than trying to kill him.”

Owen
frowned. “It makes sense,” he said. “Some sense. Neither you nor Zeinab thought
he was of the stuff that killers are made of.” “Who is this Zeinab?” asked
Nikos.

“A
girl,” Georgiades told him. “He’s been doing some research of his own.”

“He’s
been writing some memos of his own, too,” said Nikos, still unforgiving.

“But there
remains the difficulty,” said Owen, disregarding them, “that the societies, or
most of them, are professional and Ahmed is a bungling amateur. Why does a
professional use an amateur?” “Because he’s Nuri’s son?” offered Nikos.

“I
still don’t see—”

“It
adds to the pleasure,” said Nikos.
“Their pleasure.
To
use the son against the father,” he explained patiently.

“Now
you’ve shocked
him
, ”
said Georgiades to Nikos.
“Anyway, I can think of another explanation.”

“What’s
that?”

“They
wanted to give him something to do.
Always hanging around.
Get him out of their hair.”

“I
prefer that explanation,” Owen said to Nikos.

Nikos
smiled, worldly-wise.

“We’re
still left with the old question, though,” said Owen. “Who’s ‘they’?”

“We
know the answer now, don’t we?” asked Georgiades.

“Do
we?”

“The ones Nuri and Ahmed went to see at
al
Liwa
. ”

But that was strange. For the person Nuri
and Ahmed had talked to at
al Liwa,
they later learned from their agent,
was Abdul Murr.

Much
to Owen’s surprise, for he had neither expected nor intended the memo to have
such an effect, there were three other responses besides Guzman’s to the memo
that day.

The next came at lunch-time. Owen had gone
as usual to the club and as he was going in to the dining-room someone hailed
him through the open door of the bar.

It was one of the Consul-General’s bright
young men, a personal friend.

“Hello, Gareth,” he said. “Can I catch you
for a minute?”

He led Owen out on to the verandah and they
sat down at a table where they were unlikely to be disturbed.

“It’s about that memo of yours,” he said,
“the one about lapses in military security.”

“Look, Paul—” Owen began hastily.

“The Old Man’s concerned. He had the SPG in
first thing this morning.
Told him a thing or two.
And
not before time, I must say! The Army behaves as if it’s on a bloody island of
its own. Has its own procedures, won’t talk to anyone else,
won’t
even listen to anyone else. Thinks it knows it all and in reality knows bloody
nothing! The Egyptians mightn’t be here at all as far as it’s concerned. And
much the same goes for the Civil Branch. We might as well not exist. The Army
goes clumping in with its bloody great big boots. Half our time is spent trying
to make up for the damage it’s already bloody caused and the other half trying
to anticipate what it’s going to cock up next. Liaison—you talk about liaison
in your mem—-Jesus!
they
can’t even spell the word!”

“Some of them particularly,” said Owen,
pleased.

“You’re dead right!
Military
Security in particular.
Mind you, you get all the dummos in that. A fine
pig’s ear they’ve been making of things!
Supplying arms and
ammunition to half the bloody population.
And making a few bob out of it
on the side, I’ll bet. Those bloody Army storesmen are about as straight as a
corkscrew—an implement with which they are all too familiar.”

“Now, now, Paul,” said Owen. “They drink
beer.”

“You’re bloody right they do! No wonder the
place is a desert. Anything liquid they bloody consume.”

“The trouble is,” said Owen, “the Sirdar
will never do anything.”

“Oh
yes he will.
This time.
The Agent was on to him
directly. He’s at risk, too. Great minds think alike for once.”

“You
reckon the memo might have some effect?”

“It
already has. Sirdar’s already kicked some people up the ass.” “He has?” said
Owen happily.

“He
certainly has.”

Paul
leaned forward and spoke a trifle more quietly but just as vehemently.

“And
with bloody good reason,” he said. “Because do you know what came out? The Old
Man demanded to know if anything had been stolen recently. The SPG had to tell
him. And—can you believe it? It turned out that a box of grenades had vanished
from Kantara barracks only last Tuesday! Grenades! A box! Jesus!”

“Kantara?”
said Owen. “That’s interesting.”

“Is
it? Well, perhaps it is to you. I must say, Gareth, they’re pretty impressed
with you. Timely prescience, the Agent called it. Even the Sirdar thought it
was damn good intelligence work.”

“Well,
there you are,” said Owen modestly.

“But
what interests
me
, ”
said Paul, “was that it
was a whole bloody box.
Could cause absolute havoc if they
start chucking a few of those around.
And it’s just when we’ve got all
the festivals coming up! We’ve got the Carpet next week and the place will be
stiff with notables all hanging around for someone to take a pot shot at. Even
the Khedive has been persuaded to come to receive the plaudits of his loyal and
appreciative subjects. And I’m organizing our side! Christ!”
“The
Agent?”

“And
the Sirdar!”

“McPhee’s
very good,” said Owen.

“He’ll
have to be,” said Paul gloomily, “if the Army is issuing arms to the whole
population of Egypt.”

“Is
this real?” asked Garvin.

He
had an unfortunate way of going to the heart of things.

“I
am afraid it is, sir,” said Owen, straightforward and thanking his lucky stars
for the conversation at lunch-time. “A box of grenades went missing from
Kantara only this week.”

“I
know,” said Garvin. “The Sirdar told me.” He still looked sceptical. “I must
say I was a little surprised at your memo. I hadn’t noticed any build-up.
Still, I dare say you rely on information which does not come through in the
ordinary way.”

He
looked down at the papers in front of him. Garvin’s distaste for paper-pushing
was well known.

“That’s
right, sir,” said Owen immediately. He felt he was sounding too much like
McPhee.
“And a lot of it of very dubious quality.
But
when it all points in one direction—”

“And
this did?”

“Enough
to risk a judgement,” said Owen.

Surprisingly,
Garvin seemed satisfied.

“Well,”
he said, “it seems to have been a good judgement. Both the Agent and the Sirdar
are pleased with you. And that doesn’t happen often.”

One
of the reasons for that, Owen felt like saying, was that neither of them was
particularly anxious to hear about the Mamur Zapt’s activities; and Garvin
usually thought it politic not to enlighten them.

“The
only trouble is,” said Garvin, “that now they’ll expect you to do something.”

“I’ve
outlined several things in my memo—” Owen began.

Garvin
brushed this aside.

“About
the grenades,” he said.

The
conversation was beginning to take an unprofitable direction.

“Isn’t
that rather Military Security’s pigeon?” Owen asked.

“Not
any longer. The grenades are out of the camp, aren’t they?”

Owen
was forced to admit that this was so.

“They’ll
have to give me some information,” he said.

“They
will.
This time.”

“We’d
never even have heard about the grenades if it had not been for my memo,” he
said, still hoping to deflect Garvin back to safer paths.

“Probably
not,” Garvin agreed cheerfully.

“Still,”
he said, “with your contacts—
You
must have had
something to go on in writing your memo.”

The
scepticism had definitely returned.

“Of
course,” Owen agreed hastily.
“Of course.”

“However,”
he went on after a moment, “nothing on this, I’m afraid.”

“It
will all fit in,” said Garvin, relaxed. “Never underrate your sources.” It was
a favourite maxim of his.

“No,”
said Owen.

A
suffragi brought in some papers for Garvin to sign. He read them carefully and
signed deliberately. Although he had been to Cambridge he always gave the
impression that writing came hard to him.

“All
I’ve got to go on at the moment,” said Owen, “is that they were taken from
Kantara. I’m interested in Kantara for another reason. That’s where the gun
came from which was used against Nuri Pasha.”

He
told Garvin about the sergeant. Garvin was not very concerned.

“Probably
happening all the time,” he said. “They probably all do it.”

“And
they all know where to take it to,” said Owen.

“Yes,”
Garvin admitted. “There is that.”

“Military
Security
haven’t
done anything about that angle,” said
Owen, still hoping.

“Nor
have we,” said Garvin. “You’d better start.”

Owen
returned unhappily to his room. This did not appear to be working out as he had
hoped.

There
was a message on his desk to ring one of the Sirdar’s aides.

“Hello,
John,” he said.

“Gareth?
That
you?
Thank goodness for that. I’ve got to go out this evening—the
Sirdar’s holding a reception—and I wanted to catch you first. It’s about that
memo.”

“Yes?”
said Owen, warily now.

“What’s
going on?”

“I’m
trying to shake that bugger, Brooker.”

“Reasonable.
He needs shaking. But why bring the whole firmament down as well?”

“Have
you got caught up in it?” asked Owen. “Sorry if you have.”

“Oh,
that’s all right,” said the other. “I’m not directly involved. The thing is,
though, that I’ve been talking to Paul, and he’s reminded me that we’ve got
this blasted Carpet thing on next week. I’ve got to be holding the Sirdar’s
hand at the time and I don’t want to be fending off grenades while I’m doing
it.”