The Mamur Zapt and the Return of the Carpet (18 page)

“And
then he couldn’t stop,” said Owen.

“He
can stop. He wants to stop. Only …”

“Only what?”

“He’s
frightened.”

“Of me?”

“Not
of you. His wife is frightened of you.”

“Thanks.
What’s
he
frightened of?”

She
looked at him carefully, as if making a judgement. The decision was reached.

“One of the clubs.”

“Which?”
“I don’t know.”

Zeinab
pushed back the edge of the scarf where the heat was making it stick to her
face.

“I
know only what she told me,” she said. ‘‘That’s why she came to see Raoul this
morning.”

‘‘And
Raoul told you to come and see me?”

“No,”
she said. “Raoul does not know I am seeing you. She talked to me afterwards. I
decided to come and see you.”

Owen
considered.

“What
would Raoul’s advice have been?”

“The
usual, I expect,” she said. “To pay and keep quiet.”

“But
you thought differently?”

“I
am sorry for the woman,” she said. “She is expecting another child. She has had
two miscarriages already.”

Owen
was thinking about what Garvin had said.
About building up
his own map of Cairo.

“I
might not pursue Aziz,” he said, “if Aziz could help me occasionally.”

Zeinab
shook her head. “He’s too frightened.”

“No
one would know.”

“He
would still be too frightened.”

Owen
nodded slowly. There was no need to press.

“I
might leave him alone anyway,” he said. “He’s a small fish.” “Thank you.”

“Was
that what you wanted?” he asked. “What you came for?”
“Ye-es.
And to give you the information.”

“About the club?
It’s interesting,”
he said, “but I need to know more.
Its name, for instance.
Would his wife know?”

“You
are not to approach her!” she said fiercely. “She is frightened enough
already.”

“Could
you find out? She might talk to you.”

“You
are asking a lot.”

“It
was your father,” he pointed out. “And he might still be at risk.”

“She
would be at risk if she gave you the name,” Zeinab said. “And she’s a very
small fish indeed.”

“I
would like to
help,
” said Owen, “only you’ll have to
tell me more.”

Zeinab
sat thinking it over.

Owen
was content to wait.

Eventually
she made up her mind.

“I
will ask her,” she said.

“Thank
you.”

“But
you are not to speak to her.
Even if I fail.
Promise
me.”

“Very
well,” said Owen. “I promise.”

The
next morning he received a phone call from her. She had obtained the information
he wanted, she said. Better still, she had arranged for him to meet the lady in
question. He was to go to the Sharia el Mourani that evening about seven. There
was a hairdresser’s, Steffano’s. It had an entrance from the rear, in the
Sharia el Cheriffein.
Next to.
a
perfume-seller’s. He was to go in that entrance. She would use the other one.
Someone would be expecting him and would show him to a room.

“Steffano’s,”
he said, “isn’t that
… ?”

“Yes,”
she said. “That’s why it will be quite safe. Everyone uses it. They will think
it just another assignation.”

One
of the ways in which Cairene women evaded the constraints their husbands placed
on them was through private appointments in apartments set aside for that
purpose, usually above fashionable shops. Respectable ones allowed amateur
partners only; but there was, too, a thriving trade in boys. Good-looking
European boys were preferred. Steffano’s was not a house of that sort, but the
fact that Owen was European would fit.

He
found the entrance without difficulty. A Greek girl was waiting inside. She
looked carefully at Owen and then led the way upstairs.

He
was shown into a room with a deep, soft carpet, divans and exquisite brocade
drapings over the walls. The girl motioned to him to sit down on one of the
divans and then left the room.

Owen
heard a faint noise behind him and looked round quickly. Half-concealed behind
some of the draping was a door. It opened fully and Zeinab came into the room.
Behind her he could just see the figure of another woman.

“My
friend does not think it proper to be in the room with you alone,” Zeinab said,
“or even with me present. She will stay in the room beyond and talk through the
door.”

“How
will I know it is the woman I think?” asked Owen.

Zeinab
looked at him sharply.

“You
will have to take my word,” she said. “I wouldn’t have gone to all this trouble
if it was another woman.”

“Is
she veiled?”

“She
has her veil.” “I would like to see her face.”

“You
can’t,” said Zeinab flatly.

“For
a moment,” said Owen. “Through the doorway would be enough.”

Zeinab
turned and spoke to the woman. There was some debate. Eventually she stood
aside. The woman beyond timidly dropped her veil, just for an instant. It was
enough. It was the woman Owen had seen in the Syrian’s house.

He
indicated that he was satisfied. Zeinab walked across and sat down on the divan
opposite him. If he talked directly to her he would have his back to the other
woman. He compromised by sitting half round so that he could both address
Zeinab and keep an eye on the door behind him. It was just a precaution.

“The
society,” said
Zeinab,
“is Tademah.”

“How
does she know?”

“She
has seen a letter.”

“Signed Tademah?”

“Yes.”

“Addressed
to her husband?”

“Yes.”

“What
did the letter say?”

Zeinab
looked over his shoulder. The woman began to speak, hesitantly and so softly
that he could hardly hear her.

“It
spoke of guns,” she said.

“Which your husband had?
Or was going to
get?”

“To
get, I think.” The woman was almost inaudible.

“The
note asked him to get them?”

“Yes,”
the woman breathed.

“Did
it say how the guns would be collected?”

“I
do not remember.”

“Or
how they would be paid for?”

“I
do not remember.”

He
heard a little sob.

“It
does not matter,” he said. “But you are sure it was from Tademah?”

“Yes,”
she whispered. “It said at the bottom.”

“Just Tademah?
No other name?”

“No.”

After
a moment she said: “It was at the top of the letter, too. It said, ‘Greetings
from Tademah.’ ”

“Did
it threaten your husband?” “Not this time.”

He
could barely catch the words.

“There
have been other letters?”

“Yes.”

“How
do you know? Have you seen them?”

“No.
My husband has spoken of them.”

“He
is worried by them?”

“Yes,”
she said, “yes.”

“Do
they come often? How often do the letters come?”

There
was a pause.

“I
don’t know,” the woman said eventually. “He does not always tell me.”

“But
he worries about them?”

“Yes,”
she said, “always. He always worries about them. He does not sleep.”

“You
know when he is worried,” Owen said. “How often is that?
Once
a month?”

“No,”
she said. “Not as often.
Three months, four months perhaps.”

“Have
you ever seen any of the men?”

This
time he could not hear the answer at all. He looked at Zeinab. She shook her
head.

“Does
your husband go out to meet them?”

Again
he could not hear.

Zeinab
shook her head again.

“You’d
better stop,” she said.

“One
question
more,” said Owen. “How long has your husband
been receiving these letters?”

This
time he heard the answer clearly.

“For
two years,” she said. “For two years we have had this badness with us. Two
years of not sleeping at night, of worrying about my husband, about what we
would do if … if …”

Zeinab
stood up.

“You
see?” she said.

The
woman’s voice steadied.

“Of
worrying about the children,” she said.

Owen
stood up, too.

“Thank
you,” he said to he woman behind him. “You have been very helpful. You have
told me what I needed. I shall remember this and be a friend to you.”

Zeinab
went into the room with the woman and shut the door behind her. Owen left by
the way he had come.

He
went home to change before going out to dinner. There was a message waiting for
him. He rang the office at once.

“You’d
better come in,” said Nikos. “There’s been an attack on Ahmed.”

CHAPTER 10

“I
thought we had a man on him?” said Owen.

“We
did,” said Georgiades.

“Then
what the hell was he doing?”

“Watching,”
said Georgiades, “as he was told to.”

“Yes,
but not to watch him being half-killed.”

“I’ll
kick his backside,” said Georgiades. “Tell you what. You kick his backside. It
will have more effect.”

He
went to the door and bellowed.
“Ya Hamid.”

Bare
feet padded along the corridor and a subdued man in a dirty white gown came
into the room.

“Effendi!”
he said, and touched his heart.

“Hamid!”
said Owen sternly.

“Yes, effendi?”

“What
is all this?”

“Tell
him the whole sad story,” Georgiades directed.

Hamid
studied his toes.

“I
was watching the boy,” he said in a low voice. “He came out of the college with
his friend and walked along the Sharia el Torba. They crossed the Sharia
Mohammed Ali and went into the Sharia es Souekeh. They stopped at a
lemonade-seller and sat there for a long time. Some other young joined them and
they talked a lot. Then the others left and the boy and his friend went on
towards the Sharia Khalig el Masri. Just before they came to the Mosque el
Behat some men fell upon them.”
“How many?”

“Four, effendi.
They were big,
strong men with clubs. They knocked the boy down and beat him sorely. Then his
friend ran away and I heard him calling for the police.”

“Did
the men try to rob the boy?”

“No, effendi.
They just beat
him.”

“No
knives?”

“None, effendi.
Just
clubs.”

Owen
looked at Georgiades.

“They
just wanted to scare him,” said the Greek.

“Looks
like it, doesn’t it?” said Owen.

He
turned sternly on Hamid.

“And all
this time,” he said, “you watched and did nothing?” “Yes, effendi,” said the
man humbly.

He
rubbed one foot against his shin. As the horny sole scraped up and down there
was a distinct rasp.

“There
were four of them, effendi,” he said, “and they were all bigger and stronger
than I.”

“You
ought to eat more,” said Georgiades, inspecting him critically. “You could have
shouted for the police,” Owen said to Hamid, still sternly but softening.

“Then
they would have beaten
me
, ”
said Hamid.

He put the
foot back on the ground and examined it carefully. “Besides,” he said, “the
friend was calling for the police. And, besides, I was told but to watch.”

It
was hardly fair to expect heroics from a man paid a few millièmes an hour. Owen
looked at Georgiades and shrugged. Georgiades grinned.

“Our
friend keeps his feet on the ground,” he said, “in one sense at least.”

He
turned to Hamid.

“So
you watched,” he said. “Tell us what you saw.”

“The
men went on beating the boy until they tired. Then one of the men said: ‘That
is our work well done. Let us go now to the bath house and claim our reward.’ ”

Owen
interrupted him.

“ ‘The
bath house,’ you said?
The hammam?”

“Yes, effendi.
They said they
would go to the hammam to claim their reward.”

“I
don’t suppose,” said Owen, discounting the possibility even before he had said
it, “that you followed them to the hammam?”

Hamid
traced a long circle with his toe. Reluctantly he raised his eyes to Owen’s.

“Effendi,”
he said. “I did.”

“What?”

“The
boy was all right,” Hamid pleaded. “I heard him groan. There was a woman by,
with onions, and I said: ‘Stay with the boy. His friend comes shortly with
aid.’ ”

“Hamid!”
said Owen, awestruck. “You have done well.”

“It
was all right to leave the boy?” asked Hamid anxiously. “Not to watch?”

“On
this occasion,” said Owen, “it was all right.”

“He
would not have been able to do anything,” Hamid reassured him. “He had been
well beaten.”

“It
does not matter,” said Owen.

It
did, however, matter to Hamid.

“I
would not have left him otherwise,” he assured them.

“On
this occasion,” said Owen, “it was justified.”

Hamid
was inclined to pursue the point further but Georgiades laid his hand on the
Arab’s arm.

“Tell
us, ya Hamid,” he said conversationally, “what happened at the hammam?”

Hamid,
happier now, stopped tracing patterns on the floor with his toe and looked up
brightly.

“When we
got to the hammam,” he said, “the men went in.” “Yes?” said Owen, with sinking
heart.

“I
waited outside lest they suspect I was following them.”

“You
did not go in?”

“Oh no, effendi!”
Hamid was shocked.
“They would have seen me. Besides, it would have cost two piastres.”

“So
you waited outside.”

“Yes, effendi.”
Hamid beamed.

“And
then?”

“Then
the men came out,” said Hamid, “and went away. But I did not follow them this
time.”

A
thought struck him.

“Should I
have followed them, effendi?” he asked anxiously. “No,” said Owen, resigned.
“No, Hamid. You had done your best.”

“Thank
you, effendi,” said Hamid, bursting with pride.

Owen
took a deep breath.

“So
you did not see the man they talked with,” he said, more in confirmation than
in hope.

“Only
when he came out with them,” said Hamid.

“You
saw him, then?”

“Yes,
effendi?” said Hamid, surprised.

Owen
fought to keep himself in control.

“What
did he look like? What did he say?” he snapped.

Then,
realizing that two questions at a time were probably too much for Hamid, he
calmed down.

“Tell
me, ya Hamid,” he said, in as relaxed a tone as he was capable of, “did you by
any chance hear him talking with the men?”

“Yes,
effendi,” said Hamid, beginning to worry that he had said or done something
wrong.

“Can
you remember what was said?”

“The
men were grumbling. One said to another: ‘Fifty piastres
is
not enough.’ Another said: ‘He promised us more.’ The man said: ‘That is all
you get until I know you have done your work properly. Come to me tomorrow and
I will give you the other fifty.’ The men went on grumbling but he would not give
them more. ‘We will come back tomorrow,’ they said. Then they went away.”

Georgiades
patted Hamid on the arm.

“You
have done well,” he said, “to remember all that. Has he not?” he appealed to
Owen.

“He
has done very well,” Owen agreed, “and shall be rewarded for it. I do not
suppose,” he said, looking at Georgiades, “that he also heard where these bad
men were going to meet.”

“At
the hammam,” said Hamid promptly.

“At the hammam?
Indeed!” said
Georgiades. “And I don’t suppose,” he went on, “that they said when this would
be?”

“Oh
yes they did!” said Hamid, confident again now.
“At sunset
tomorrow.”

“Would you know the men if you saw them?”
Owen asked.

“Oh
yes, effendi,” said Hamid fervently.

“And that other?
The one they talked
with?”

“Oh
yes, effendi!”

“Then
you have done well!” said Owen, patting him on the shoulder.

“You
have done very well!” said Georgiades. “And I shall speak to the senior orderly
about you and he will see that you eat well and drink well tonight. Then
tomorrow you will help us and for that you will receive double pay.
Which you richly deserve!”

He
shepherded Hamid off along the corridor. A little later he came back mopping
his brow.

“Sometimes,”
he said, “I feel as if the heat is getting to me. I have this dream: I am the
one sane man in a world of madmen.
Or vice versa.”

“For
God’s sake don’t let him lose himself,” said Owen.

“I
won’t!” Georgiades promised. “Not till after. Then I’ll let him lose himself
quick.”

“Keep
him here overnight.”

“And all tomorrow as well.
I’ve told Osman not
to let him go out, not even for a pee. I’ve told Abdul Kassem not to let him
out of his sight.”

Owen
went across to the window and pushed open the shutters. The cool night air came
in. He kept his face there for a moment.

“There
is a faint chance that he won’t mess it up tomorrow,” he told the shutters.
“Only faint.
I’ve been in Cairo long enough to know that.”

“Faint,”
Georgiades agreed.
“But a chance.”

Nikos
stuck his head in.

“There’s
a message for you to ring your friend in the Parquet,” he said.

Nikos
did not approve of such relations. He was a traditionalist as far as the
department was concerned.

He
looked pointedly at his watch.

“I
am going home.”

“It
was a warning,” said Nuri.

He
had asked to see them when they arrived at the house the following morning.
Their purpose was really to see Ahmed but Nuri’s man had waylaid them.

He
received them this time in a small downstairs room he evidently used as a study
or library. The walls, unusually for Arab rooms, were lined with books, most of
them in French. There was a desk with carved ivory paperweights, cut in the
figure of nude women. There was a Persian carpet on the floor, and there were
two deep, comfortable, leather armchairs.

Nuri
motioned to them to sit in the armchairs. He himself used the high-backed
wooden chair at the desk. This gave him the advantage of height. The squat,
square form seemed to loom over them.

“You
don’t think it was a student quarrel, then?” said Mahmoud, who had asked for
Owen’s company. Owen sensed that Mahmoud found Nuri difficult to handle. They
were both Egyptians but different kinds of Egyptian. Nuri was of the old,
feudal society, a grand seigneur in a system that had been corrupt for
centuries, aware only of the levers of pleasure and power, experienced,
cynical, blasé, interested, a little, in Mahmoud as a bright, up-and-coming new
man, but ultimately dismissive of the powerless. For Mahmoud, Nuri represented
everything that stood in the way of a New Egypt: conservatism, venality, a
disillusion which cut efforts to reform off at the knees before they even got
started, power to block but not to do. There was, too, the social difference
between them, which Mahmoud denied but could not help being sensitive to and
which Nuri knew how to assert without lifting a finger. Mahmoud had not been at
ease on their last visit and he was not at ease now. He needed Owen for
assurance, or perhaps it was insurance.

“No,” said Nuri, “I don’t think it was a
student quarrel.”

“You think it was directed at you?”

“Of course.”

He looked at them seriously. He was a
different man today, more the elder statesman, less the old roué. Owen
suspected, however, that Nuri was a man of many parts.

“Through striking at my son they strike at
me. And they strike,” he said somberly, “where I am most vulnerable.”

Was this another part, Owen wondered: the
loving father? Not entirely, he decided. Nuri genuinely seemed to have a soft
spot for the boy; perhaps, in this male-oriented society, because he was a boy.

“We are doing what we can,” said Mahmoud
reassuringly.

“Yes,” said Nuri sceptically.
“And meanwhile?”

Mahmoud caught the tone and flushed
slightly. He and Nuri always seemed to rub each other up the wrong way. Owen
thought he saw traces of woodenness beginning to appear in Mahmoud’s face. Nuri
was exactly the sort of person he was likely to react against.

“Did you have anything in mind?” Owen asked
Nuri. He thought it best to intervene.

“I hoped you would have something in mind,”
said Nuri. “Haven’t you?”

“That depends,” said Owen.

“Really?” said Nuri.
“On
what?”

Instead of answering, Owen said: “You could
always get him a bodyguard.”