The Mamur Zapt and the Return of the Carpet (14 page)

“You’ve
got the other hand free,” said Owen.

“Thank
you. Oh thank you.”

“It’ll
be all right,” said Owen.
“McPhee’s quite sound.”

“He’s
thick as a post.
And erratic as well.”

“He’s
OK at this sort of thing. Anyway, we’ll double up security all round.”

“The
Sirdar thinks something extra is needed.”

“Such as?”

“Don’t
know. You’re the one who’s supposed to have ideas on things like that. The
Sirdar thinks you’re smart.” “I am
,
I am.”

“He
doesn’t want just a routine operation this time. I must say I’m right with
him.”

“I’ll
speak to McPhee.”

“You’re
the one in charge.”

“No,
I’m not. I’m sort of in the background,” Owen explained. “Not this time.
Haven’t you heard?”

Owen’s
heart began to sink.

“No,”
he said. “Tell me.”

“Sorry
to be the one to break the news. Thought it would have got through by now.”

“It
hasn’t.”

“Well,
the Sirdar wanted security augmented. He offered the Army. The Agent said no
thanks.
Wisely.
The Sirdar said this was a special
situation. The police couldn’t be expected to cope with terrorism. The Agent
thought there was something in that. They decided that what was needed was
someone who knew about that sort of thing.
You.
Congratulations.”

“Christ!”
said Owen.

“Help
me catch the grenades, then?”

“I’ll
throw the bloody grenades,” said Owen.

John roared with laughter.

“At
any rate,” he said, “you’ll be spared the assistance of Military Security.
Unless you want it.
I offer you Brooker.”

“That stupid bastard!
It’s
all his
fault,” said Owen unfairly.

“If
he gets in your hair anymore,” John offered, “tell me. I’ll get him posted to
Equatoria.”

“Those
grenades were taken from Kantara.”

“Where
that sergeant was?” He whistled. “Pity you couldn’t squeeze something out of
him. He’s coming out today, you know.” “Is he?
The lucky
bastard.”

“He’ll
be celebrating tonight. And every night for the next week, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“He
won’t talk now.”

“No?
Couldn’t you frighten him somehow?”

Owen
suddenly had an idea.

To
the north of the Ezbekiyeh Gardens were the streets of ill repute. The chief of
these was the Sharia Wagh el Birket, one side of which was taken up by the
apartments of the wealthier courtesans. The apartments rose in tiers over the
street, each with its balcony, over which its occupants hung in negligees of
virgin white.

The opposite side of the street was arcaded
and in the arches were little cafés where strong liquor was sold. The customers
sat at tables on the pavement, smoking and drinking, and looking across at the
balconies opposite. From time to time one would make up his mind and cross the
street.

At the far end of the street the cafés gave
way to houses. Unlike the ones opposite, they were dark and shuttered. To
enter, and many people did, you knocked on a small door and waited to be
admitted.

It was to one of these that the sergeant had
gone, already reeling from the liquor he had previously consumed. Georgiades
had an informant inside who reported regularly on the sergeant’s progress,
which was from drunk to fighting drunk to maudlin to blind drunk and finally to
stupor. During the evening, in the intervals between drinking, he had relieved
the needs of his flesh with the help of willing assistants, who had even more
willingly relieved him of coin, wallet, watch and other valuables.

“Did you get his belt?” asked Owen.

Georgiades held up a standard military belt.

“They did! Good!” said Owen with
satisfaction.

Soldiers often sold their belts for drink.
Since belts were military equipment they could then be charged with a different
set of offences under military law.

He took the belt and inspected it almost as
a matter of course. It was an offence to file the edges and point of the
buckle; the belt made a nasty weapon in a brawl. Officers were required to
check belts regularly. Owen looked to see if there was evidence of filing.
There was.

“We’ll keep that,” he said to Georgiades.

He might be able to use it later.

Georgiades put the belt on under his
trousers.

“When do you want to go in?” he asked.

Owen checked his watch. It was not long
after two in the morning. The street was still quite busy. The houris were no
longer on the balconies but busy inside. However, customers were still coming
and going. Small groups of scarlet Tommies twined together staggered down the
street singing drunkenly. When they got past the more selective establishments
hands would very soon pull them into alleyways. As well, however, there were
the usual Cairene clients; too many of them.

“We’ll wait,” Owen said.

By
three the street was empty. The last Tommies had been swallowed up. The traffic
now was out of the houses and not into them. The balconies were empty. The
pimps were gone.

Owen
signed with his hand.

Georgiades
went up to the door and knocked upon it. A little shutter opened at eye level.
Apparently Georgiades satisfied scrutiny, for the door was opened a crack.
Someone big was standing inside. Owen saw Georgiades look up at him as he was
talking. The door would be on a chain. It was easier to get it right open.

Owen
saw some money change hands.

There
was the sound of the chain being taken off. Georgiades stepped inside. A man
fell suddenly against the door. One of the big Sudanis with Owen pulled him
outside and hit him with his truncheon. Georgiades was holding the door open
with his shoulders. The other Sudanis piled in.

Owen
stepped in after them. A man was lying by the door dazed and holding his head.
Two of the Sudanis were grappling with a huge Berberine. As Owen entered he saw
the Berberine subside.

Georgiades
had pushed on ahead. They were in a small, dark hall at the end of which was a
door. He flung the door open. Beyond it was a large sunken room with couches
and divans on which people were lying in various states of undress. There were
glasses and bottles on the floor and one or two of the men were smoking from
nargilehs.

A
woman sprang up. She was wearing a long purple dress and her face was heavily
made up. She called something and two men came out of an inner room holding
thick sticks with spikes on them. Georgiades showed them his gun and they
stopped. A Sudani hit one of the men across the arm with his truncheon. Then
there was a crack and the spiked stick fell to the floor. The man doubled up,
holding his arm. The other man ran off. The Sudani followed him.

Some
of the people on the couches started getting up.

“Stay
where you are!” Georgiades commanded.

He
looked round the room. The sergeant wasn’t there.

“Upstairs!”
he said, and nodded to the Sudanis.

The
madam advanced on him, her eyes blazing.

“What
is this?” she said. “Who are you?”

Georgiades
ignored her.

She
caught one of the Sudanis as he went by.

“Who
is this?” she hissed.

“The
Mamur Zapt,” said the man, and went out through the door.

The
woman saw Owen.

“Vous êtes le Mamur Zapt?”

“Oui, madame
. ”

“Qu ’
est
ce que vous faîtes
ici?”
she demanded, and launched on a bitter tirade. Owen pushed her away.

The
people on the couches sat frozen. One of the girls began to cry.

Georgiades
came in.

“He’s
upstairs,” he said.

Owen
followed him. There was a small landing at the top of the stairs which gave on
to a series of rooms. Georgiades went into one of these.

There
was a large bed with no covers. On it were two women, one black, one white,
both naked, and the sergeant, dressed only in a shirt. He was trying to sit up.

“What
the hell’s this?” he said thickly.

Georgiades
looked at Owen. Owen nodded.

“Get
the cuffs on him,” he said.

A
big Sudani yanked the sergeant off the bed in a single movement. The sergeant
swore and stood swaying. Georgiades snapped the cuffs on. The sergeant looked
at them, bewildered. He had difficulty in focusing his eyes.

One
of the girls gestured at his trousers, which had been flung over a chair.

“Take
too long,” said Georgiades.

The
girl shrugged, curled herself up and lay there watching.

The
Sudanis started hustling the sergeant out. As they got him to the door he
suddenly bent over and vomited.

They
had to wait while he leaned against the door post groaning and retching.

The
madam came up the stairs.

“I
will complain,” she said. “You have no right.”

Her
eyes took in the sergeant.

“Pig!”
she said.
“Cochon.”

In
one of the rooms off the landing a woman cried out.

The
sergeant brought himself upright. His eyes suddenly focused on Owen.

“Seen
you before,” he muttered.

One
of the Sudanis pulled at him. The sergeant shook him off.

“Who
the hell are you?” he said.
“Seen you before.”

Two
Sudanis got a grip on him and began to drag him down the stairs.

“Mon dieu!”
said the madam.
“C’est
affreux!”
She tried to intercept Owen. “I will tell the consul,” she
said. “You cannot do this.”

The
sergeant collapsed at the bottom of the stairs, white-faced and groaning.

“Take
him out!” said Georgiades.

One
of the Sudanis caught hold of the sergeant by the collar and tried to haul him
upright. The collar tore and the sergeant fell back. Another Sudani picked him
up by the armpits and propped him against the stairs. The sergeant looked about
him, confused.

“Seen
you before,” he said.

The
Sudanis pulled him towards the door. Half way across the room he was sick
again.

“Cochon!
Cochon!”
the madam cried.

A
grey-haired man came in through the door. He was wearing a silk dressing-gown
and had plainly just got out of bed.

“I
protest!” he said. “These are Syrian citizens!”

“This
one?” asked Georgiades, pointing to the sergeant.

“That
one, too,” said the grey-haired man.

“He’s
a British soldier,” said Georgiades.

The
sergeant lifted his head. “I fucking am,” he said.

He
wrenched himself free from the Sudanis, put his head down and charged at the
grey-haired man. Georgiades tripped him up and the Sudanis fell on top of him.

“Get
him out, for Christ’s sake,” said Owen.

The
Sudanis picked themselves up. The sergeant lay motionless on the floor. Another
Sudani came across and helped them to carry him out.

The
madam caught the grey-haired man by the sleeve and whispered to him. He came up
to Owen.

“I
protest!” he said. “This is a gross infringement of our nation’s rights under
the Capitulations.”

“Who
are you?” asked Owen.

The
man drew himself up. “I am a member of the Syrian consular staff.”

He
fumbled in the pocket of his dressing-gown and produced a printed slip.

“Here
is my card,” he said with dignity.

Owen
ignored it.

“I
am the Mamur Zapt,” he said. “I have right of entry into all premises.”

“Under protest,” said the man. “My country
does not accept that interpretation.”

“Too bad,” said Owen, and turned away.

The sergeant was out of the house now.

“I shall complain to the Agent,” said the
grey-haired man. “This is Syrian territory and these are Syrian subjects.”

He had to earn his money. Half the brothels
in Cairo, and all the gambling saloons, retained a tame consular official to
use in case of emergencies. Under the Capitulations, privileges granted to European
powers by successive Ottoman rulers, foreigners were granted immunity from
Egyptian law. They could not even be charged unless it could be proved that
they had committed an offence not under Egyptian law but in terms of the law of
their own native countries. Since nationality was elastic at the best of times
in the Levant, it was very hard to convict anyone at all; except, of course,
for the poorer Egyptians.