The Mamur Zapt and the Return of the Carpet (15 page)

It was a system which commercially inclined
Cairenes knew exactly how to turn to advantage, and which drove Garvin and
McPhee to despair.

“One of them is a British subject,” said
Owen, “and he has been robbed.”

He followed Georgiades out of the house.
They had given the Sudanis enough time now to be well on their way.

Beneath the Mamur Zapt’s office was a whole
row of cells, but Owen did not want the sergeant put in one of them. He was
taken instead to a pûblic prison in the Hosh Sharkawiyeh. Owen had chosen it
because it was a caracol, a traditional native lock-up. It consisted of a
single long room. There were no windows, just two narrow slits high up for
ventilation. Most air and what light there was came in through the heavy wooden
bars of the grille-like door, through which prisoners could look up at the busy
street outside. The prison stood at the corner of an old square and had either
been deliberately built to be below ground level or else, like some of the
other buildings in the square, had been constructed at a time when the level
was generally lower.

There were fifteen prisoners in the cell,
not many by Egyptian standards, but crowded enough. Foetid air reached up to
Owen as the keeper unbolted the door. Some of the inmates had been confined for
the same reason as the sergeant, and, mixed with the stale
air,
there was a strong smell of excrement and vomit.

The
Sudanis threw the sergeant in and helped the keeper to slide back the heavy
bolts.

“The
Army is not going to like this,” said Georgiades.

“No,”
agreed Owen, “it is not.”

Before
they left he gave certain instructions to the keeper. They were to see the
sergeant had water, to give him bread, to keep an eye open in case there was
trouble between him and the other prisoners, but otherwise on no account to
interfere.

That
should be enough, thought Owen.

Owen
went home and slept late. When he got in to the office the next morning Nikos
was already at his desk.

“There’s
someone to see you,” he said.
“A friend of yours.
He’s
been waiting a long time.”

“Oh,”
said Owen. “Where is he?”

Nikos
pointed along the corridor. From McPhee’s room came the sound of voices.
McPhee’s.
Guzman’s.

“If
that bugger doesn’t get off my back,” said Owen, “I’ll bloody fix him.”

“The
way you did Brooker?” asked Nikos, keeping his eyes firmly on the papers in
front of him.

Owen
went into his office. A little later McPhee stuck his head in, looking hot and
bothered.

“Guzman Bey
is here,” he said. “He’s got a complaint.” “Another?”

Owen
put his pencil down, closed the file he was working on and rose to greet Guzman
as McPhee ushered him in.

“Captain
Owen!” Guzman spoke without preamble. “I wish to protest!”

“Really?”
said Owen.
“What about?”

“Your high-handed action last night.
The Khedive has
received a formal complaint from the Syrian ambassador.”

“On what grounds?”

“That
you forcibly and illegally entered premises belonging to a Syrian citizen—”

“A brothel.”

“—and
abducted a guest present on the premises.”

“A customer.
A British subject.”

“A British soldier.
Characteristically
engaged.”

“But
British.
And therefore no concern of the ambassador’s.”

Nor
of the Khedive’s, he nearly added.

“Syrian
rights have been infringed. That is the concern of the ambassador.”

Owen
reflected. He could simply tell Guzman to go and jump in the Nile. Or he could
be more politic. In Cairo it was nearly always best to be more politic. He
adopted a reasonable tone
..

“At
the time of entry the premises were not known to be foreign,” he said. “They
were known only to be a particularly vicious brothel. I must say, I find it a
little surprising that the ambassador should be defending the rights of someone
engaged in conducting such a place!” “Perhaps,” said Guzman drily, “he was
unaware of the use to which the premises were put.”

Owen
was not sure that the words were meant ironically. Guzman spoke as flatly as he
usually did; but was there a glint of humour? If so, it did not survive long.

“The
fact remains,” said Guzman, “that Syrian rights
have
been infringed and
the Khedive embarrassed.”

Owen
decided to be politic still.

“If
the Khedive has been embarrassed,” he said smoothly, “it was, of course,
inadvertently on our part. I hope you will convey my personal apologies.”

Guzman
was taken aback by this; indeed he appeared slightly put out. He hesitated, as
if uncertain about prolonging the interview, and then said, almost tentatively:
“The soldier—?”

“Will
be dealt with by the Army,” said Owen heartily.

He
edged towards the door. Guzman, however, ignored the hint. “But will he?” he
asked suddenly.

“Will
he
—”

“Be
dealt with by the Army?”

“Of course.”

“Will
it,” said Guzman meaningfully, “get the chance?”

Owen
was caught slightly off balance.

“I
don’t quite follow you.”

“I
understand,” said Guzman, “that the man is still in your custody.”

“Ah
yes,” said Owen, recovering, “but that is only temporarily.”
“How
temporary?”

“Very
temporary,” said Owen firmly. He was not going to be steam-rollered by Guzman.

“May
I ask why you are holding him?”

“I
just want to ask him a few questions.”

“About—?”
“Oh, military
matters,” he said vaguely, edging further towards the door.

“Military
matters?” Guzman looked puzzled. “But surely that is the concern of the Army?”

Owen
realized that he had been cornered again.

“Some
are my concern,” he said off-handedly.

“Ah!
Security!”

Owen
smiled politely, and uninformatively. He took up a stance by the door. Guzman
did not appear to notice. He seemed sunk in thought.

“This
man you are holding—”

“Yes?”

“What precisely—?”

“I
am afraid I am not at liberty to tell you that.”

Guzman
was still thinking.

“Was
he at the Kantara barracks?” he asked.

Owen
continued to smile politely but did not reply.

Guzman
thought again. Then he made up his mind.

“I
would like to see him,” he said abruptly.

“That,”
said
Owen,
“would not be possible.”

After
Guzman had gone, Nikos came back into the room.

“That
was odd,” he said. “Why is he so interested?”

“In
the sergeant, you mean? Don’t know.
For the same reason as
us, perhaps.”

“Perhaps,”
said Nikos, and went away again still looking thoughtful.

Owen
opened his file and worked steadily till lunch. Then he went to the club. In
the cloakroom he ran into his friend John, the Sirdar’s aide.

“I
don’t want to be seen with you!” his friend said, pretending flight.

“Why not?”

“You’re
always doing horrid things to the Army.”

“What
am I doing now?”

“Kidnapping its soldiers.
Or so I am
informed.”

Owen
was surprised.

“Christ!
That’s quick!” he said. “Who informed you?”

“Someone from the Khediviate.”

“Really?”
A nasty suspicion
dawned in Owen’s mind. “You don’t, by chance, happen to know his name?”

“He
was unwilling to give it but I extracted it. Guzman.” “Guzman!
The bastard!”

“You
do seem to be having trouble with your acquaintances,” said John.

“When
did you get the message?”

“About an hour ago.”

“He
must have rung as soon as he got out of my office.
The
bastard!”

“I
take it,” said John, drying his hands, “that the poor kidnapped soldier is a
certain ex-sergeant from Kantara?”

“You
take it rightly.”

“In
that case,” said John, “I wish to know no more. What I can tell you in
confidence is that unfortunately I was unable to pass the message on before
lunch as I was so busy. Naturally I shall inform my superiors as soon as
possible. However, it may be that I shall be detained at lunch by someone who
insists on buying me a drink and so I shall miss the afternoon mail with my
memo.
In which case it would only reach them tomorrow
morning.”

“You’re
a pal,” said Owen.

“Would
it help?”

“It
would. It really would.”

“Mind!
Till tomorrow only!”

“That
should be long enough.”

“In
any case,” said John, “it would be bad for the Sirdar’s digestion if he was
told that sort of thing just after lunch.”

“We
wouldn’t want that to happen.
But now, about your own
digestion—?”

“A
drink would go down very nicely. Yes, please.”

Owen
called in at the office after his swim. Nikos was still there. “I don’t
understand it,” he said when Owen told him about Guzman’s message. “Why would
he do a thing like that?”

“Because
he’s a nasty bastard, that’s why!” said Owen with feeling. Nikos shook his
head. “That wouldn’t be the only reason.”

“What
other reason could there be?”

“I
don’t know,” said Nikos.

Owen
left him thinking and went on into his own room. Nikos hated things to be
untidy, unexplained. He would worry at this like a terrier with a bone.

Some
time later he came into Owen’s room.

“Maybe
he’s afraid,” he said.

“Afraid?
What of?”

“You.
Talking to the
sergeant.
He thinks you might find out something.”

“But
why tip off the Army?”

“So that you get less time to talk.”

He
collected the papers from Owen’s out-tray and went back into the main office.
When Owen looked in half an hour later he had gone home.

Owen
himself worked on till well after midnight. Then he called for the sergeant.
The sergeant had been in the caracol for over twenty-four hours now; and this
time he gave Owen the name he wanted.

CHAPTER 8

“I
think we ought to go in,” said McPhee.

“There’s
no real evidence,” Garvin objected.
“Nothing to link him with
the grenades.”

“There’s
plenty to link him with other stuff.”

“Plenty?”

“That
sergeant said it was a recognized route. They’ve been using that chap for
years.”

“If
what the sergeant says is true,” said Garvin, “and we know him to be a liar.”

“He
wasn’t lying this time,” said Owen.

“It’s
the lead we wanted,” said McPhee. “What are we waiting for?”

“We’re
waiting for something real,” said Garvin.

“Isn’t
the box something real?”

“There
are boxes going in and out of that place all the time.”

“Ali
says he knows those and it wasn’t one of them,” said Owen. “How can he know all
the boxes? What about a new supplier?” “He was sure.”

“Might
be anything,” said Garvin dismissively.
“A new hat for his
wife, goods for the shop.
We can’t go in just on the word of a street
beggar.”

“And
of a sergeant,” said McPhee.

“A convicted criminal.
Lying
to save his skin.”

“Not
to save his skin,” Owen pointed out.

“All
right, then,” said Garvin.
“Lying because he’s been terrified
out of his wits.
And that’s something else I want to speak to you
about.”

“We
wouldn’t have found out any other way,” said McPhee loyally, and bore without
flinching
the look Garvin gave him.

“The
question is,” said Garvin, “now that we’ve got some real information—”

Owen
did not like the way Garvin kept emphasizing the word “real” today.

“—how
do we use it? Wouldn’t it be best simply to put a man on the shop and keep it
under surveillance?”

“We
don’t have the time,” said Owen. “The Carpet’s next week.” “Suppose the
grenades are still on their way?” asked Garvin. “Suppose they haven’t got there
yet? Don’t we just scare whoever-it-is off?”

“Suppose
they’ve already passed through?” said Owen.

“Well,”
said Garvin, “in that case we’ve lost them already. Going in wouldn’t help.”

“We
might pick up something,” said McPhee.

“And
at least we’d know,” said Owen.

“Suppose
they’re there all the time,” said McPhee, “
while
we’re
mucking around.”

“And
suppose they’ll soon be not there,” added Owen, “
if
we
go on mucking around. Boxes come out as well as go in.”

“Yes,”
said Garvin. “I’ll admit that’s a worry.”

He
rested his chin on his hand and thought.

“All
the same,” he said, “it’s not much to go on. If it wasn’t grenades I wouldn’t
look at it.”

“But
it is grenades,” said McPhee, “and the Carpet is next week.” “We don’t know—”
Garvin began, and then stopped. He thought for a little longer and then he
looked at Owen.

“OK,”
he said, “you can go in. But on your head be it.”

It
was a typical Garvin ending and Owen wanted to ask what he
meant,
though he had an uneasy feeling that he knew what was meant. McPhee, however,
was pleased.

“Good,
sir,” he said.
“When?”

“This afternoon,” said Owen, “
when
everybody’s asleep.”

“Not tonight?” asked Garvin.

“You can see better in the day,” said Owen.

Garvin shrugged.

“All right, then,” he said. “Only yoti’ll
have to move fast. He’s a Syrian and he’ll have someone round from the
consulate in a flash of lightning. You won’t even get a chance to question
him.”

“I’ll see I get a chance to question him,”
said Owen.

Soon
after two, when the sun had driven people from the streets and most Cairenes
were settling deeply into their siesta, Owen’s men went in.

The shutters had been half drawn across the
front of the shop to give shade and to symbolize recess but there was a gap in
the middle through which the men stepped. An assistant was asleep on the floor,
curled up among the brassware. He opened his eyes as the men came in, blinked
and then sat bolt upright. One of the men picked him up by the scruff of the
neck and put him in a corner, where he was soon joined by two other startled
and sleepy assistants brought through from the separate servants’ quarters at
the rear of the house.

The family lived above the shop. The first
floor contained the dining-room and a surprisingly luxurious living-room, with
a tiled floor and heavy, rich carpets on the walls. Above these were the
bedrooms, where the man whose name Owen had been given slept with his wife and
their five children. Above this again was the room at the front with five
latticed windows where the wife’s mother slept and spent most of her days,
together with a warren of small storerooms.

Georgiades went straight to these, reasoning
that the grenades would most likely be stored in the private part of the house
and in a room rarely used by the family. Abdul Kassem, one of his most
experienced men, went through to the back of the shop where goods awaiting
unpacking or despatch were stored and began to search meticulously through the
boxes.

The other men fanned out through the house.
The first thing was to station a man at every intersection, where one floor
gave on to another, or one set of rooms to an independent suite. In that way if
anyone made a panic move in one particular direction he would be remarked and
intercepted. After that the men began to move efficiently through each room.

McPhee, nominally under Owen’s orders for
the occasion, since the police did not possess right of entry without a warrant
but the Mamur

Zapt
did, began to ferret around the shop itself, poking his stick particularly
under the heavy shelving which supported the goods.

The shop was half way along the Musky and
catered for both native Egyptians and tourists. The Egyptians came for the fine
brassware: the elegant ewers called ibreek, which the Arabs used for pouring
water over the hands, the little basins and water-strainers which went with
them, old brass coffee-pots, coffee saucepans, coffee-trays, coffee-cups and
coffee-mills, fine brasswork for the nargileh pipes, chased brass lantern-ends,
brass open-work toilet boxes, incense-burners, inkpots, scales—all of good old
patterns and workmanship. The tourists came for the brass boxes and bowls
inlaid with silver, the spangled Assiut shawls, the harem embroideries, the
cloisonné umbrella handles—a special attraction—Persian pottery, enamel and
lacquer, silver-gilt parodies of jewels from the graves of Pharaohs, old,
illuminated Korans and pieces of Crusader armour.

Plenty of capital tied up here, thought Owen,
and plenty of money to buy other things as well.

He heard raised voices on the floor above,
and a moment later flat slippers descending the stairs.

A man appeared.
A Syrian.

“Qu’est-ce que vous faîtes ici,
monsieur?”
he began hotly as soon as he saw McPhee. The Scot waved him on to Owen and
continued searching.

The Syrian was in a blue silk dressing-gown
and red leather slippers. Although his house had been broken into in the middle
of his siesta and interlopers were downstairs he had taken the time to smooth
himself down and make himself presentable.

He repeated the question to Owen and then,
registering the nationality, switched to English.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.
“I am a Syrian citizen. This is an outrage.”

He was thin, middle-aged,
grey
-haired.
The hair was brushed very flat and oiled. There were grey shadows under his
eyes, not so much, Owen thought, because he had been disturbed in the middle of
his sleep, as that it was a permanent feature of his face, which would always
look haggard, worried.

“Where is your authority?” he demanded.
“Have you a warrant?”

Owen noticed that he had understood at once
that this was a police raid.

“I am the Mamur Zapt,” he said. “I do not
need a warrant.”

“The Mamur Zapt!”

Owen
caught the momentary flash of concern.

“I
demand that a member of my consul’s staff be present! I am a Syrian citizen.”

‘‘In
time,” said Owen, and turned away. He did not want to talk to the Syrian until
he had something with which to shake him. Like the grenades, for example.
But there was no sign yet of any success in the search.

He
thought it likely that the Syrian had already succeeded in getting a message
out of the house to whatever consular representative it was that he had in his
pocket. Owen had posted a couple of men outside to guard against this happening
but guessed that the Syrian had made provision for such an eventuality. It
would take some time, however, for the man from the consulate to arrive. He
could wait a few minutes.

“Let
us go upstairs,” he said.

The
Syrian looked puzzled and then suddenly acquiesced. Perhaps he thought Owen was
going to ask for a bribe. That was probably the way the previous Mamur Zapt had
done things.

As
they went upstairs Owen said to McPhee: “If anyone comes from the consulate
keep him busy as long as you can. Ask him to prove his status. Ask him if he’s
got the right place. You know.”

McPhee
knew. He was less good at these things, however, than Owen, and a resolute
official would soon brush his way past him. It would earn Owen a few minutes,
though.

The
Syrian went ahead of him into the living-room. Owen deliberately held back.

“I
shall be with you in a moment,” he said, and then continued upstairs to the
next floor.

“Keep
him down there,” he instructed his man on the stairs.

Georgiades
came out of one of the doors wiping the sweat from his face. He shook his head
as he saw Owen.

“Nothing
yet,” he said.

He
went into another room.

Owen
lingered on the small landing. He knew better than to interfere with the
search. Georgiades and his people were all experienced at that sort of thing
and there was a pattern to it which he would only disrupt. Georgiades had once
told him, too, that there were cultural differences in the way people hid
things. Greeks hid things in one sort of place, Arabs in another. Obviously he
had not yet found out where Syrians hid things.

Owen
could hear the Syrian’s voice raised in protest. He knew he would have to go
down and talk to him. The man from the consulate might soon be here.

The
Syrian was at the bottom of the stairs, his way up barred by one of Owen’s men.
Both fell back as Owen came down the stairs. Owen pushed past them and went on
into the living-room. He sat down on one of the low divans and motioned to the
Syrian to sit on another before him.

Everything
in the room was low, the divans, the tables, even the lamps. There were no
chairs. There were no sideboards or shelves, no wall furniture of any kind to
detract from the sumptuous carpets on the walls. On some of the little tables
that were scattered around beside the divans there were fine boxes and bowls,
all of silver.

A
door opened at the far end of the room and a woman’s face looked in. The Syrian
waved her irritably away. She looked worried.

The
Syrian himself had lost his apprehension and was waiting, almost confidently,
for Owen to begin. Owen guessed that he was still thinking in terms of a bribe.

Owen
decided he would try to shake him.

“You
sometimes have British soldiers among your customers,” he said, more as a
statement than a question.

The
Syrian looked slightly puzzled.

“Not
often,” he said. “The pay is not good,”

“Among
your suppliers,” said Owen.

“No,”
said the Syrian, too quickly, “no, I don’t think so.”

After
a moment he said: “I deal mostly in brassware and silverware.
With a few things for the tourists.
If an officer’s wife,
perhaps, brought me a family heirloom I might consider that. But I don’t really
deal in English things.”

“Do
you keep a list of customers?”

“In
my head,” said the Syrian.
“Only in my head.”

Owen
wondered whether it would be worth going through the books. Georgiades would
not have time, though. McPhee could do it but Owen wanted him in the shop to
take care of the man from the consulate. None of the other men would be any
good. In any case it would probably be pointless. It would be as the Syrian
said; the customers who mattered would be in his head.

The
Syrian still waited expectantly.

“You
don’t deal in anything else?” Owen asked. “Arms, for instance?”