The Mamur Zapt and the Return of the Carpet (20 page)

Two only of the men had come, one to watch
the other, Owen supposed. The others would be waiting outside. And outside
Georgiades would be waiting, too, along with Hamid and a few other men.

The man they had come to meet did not appear
for some time. Owen would have worried, had he not seen the men worrying, too.

Eventually he appeared. His head was
screened in towels and at first when he came in he did not go anywhere near
them. But then, watching from under his own towel, Owen saw him make his way as
if by chance across to them and sit down beside them. He spoke to them. The
men’s faces cleared and they sat waiting docilely while he went over to the
water-tank for his soaping and washing.

As the attendant removed the towels Owen had
a good look at the man.

It was Fakhri! Fakhri, the so-helpful
editor! Fakhri, who had started the whole thing with that first eyewitness
report!

He could not believe it! He must have made a
mistake! It just could not be.

But then the man turned his face and Owen
could see so clearly that there was no possibility of error. It was indeed
Fakhri.

Fakhri completed his washing, took his
towels and then sauntered round the bath room chatting to various other
patrons. Eventually, as if by accident, he came to rest near the two men.

Owen’s mind was whirling. The various pieces
of the pattern that he had detected and fitted so cleverly together suddenly
sprang apart, jumped into the air, somersaulted and crashed down all over the
place. For a moment or two all he could do was contemplate the ruins. Then, one
by one, unbidden, the pieces rose up again in his mind and each one, seen in a
new light, was totally transformed. Things taken for granted moved round before
his eyes and pointed in a completely new direction. Things new fitted in with a
click. And underneath, slowly, realization dawned.

He had been duped. From the start he had
been fooled. From the very moment Fakhri had walked into the office with the
testimony which had set everything in motion. How much of that original
testimony was true, Owen wondered now. Probably enough to confuse! And then the
solicitous inquiries into Nuri’s health at the café! And, also in that
conversation at the café, now he came to think about it, there were other
things as well, deliberately planted no doubt. It almost made Owen groan to think
of them. Denshawai, Nuri’s past. And then Ahmed! It was Fakhri who had directed
him to that number of
al Liwa,
the one that had led on to the
Nationalist meeting and Ahmed’s connection with the Nationalists, and his
presence at the village, and his possible links with Mustafa. He had seen
things the way Fakhri had meant him to see them. And even when Fakhri had been
taken by surprise, as when Owen had turned up unexpectedly at his party, he had
turned it to his advantage!

Owen thought back over the party. The
introduction to Daouad, the firm pointing at
al Liwa,
the apparently
incidental analysis of Nationalist politics, the pinpointing of key factions.
Oh yes, Fakhri had been obliging, all right. He had told him, or had seen that
he
learned,
everything he needed to know. Everything
he
wanted
to know.
Because Fakhri had probably seen
the drift of his thinking and carefully fed him things which would confirm it
and distract.

Fakhri was a shrewd political operator. And
that was it! Owen should have realized he was being operated on. Fakhri was
part of Egyptian
politics,
he had a political position
of his own. He was not just an independent commentator. He had his own game to
play.

Whatever that game was, he played it very
well. Fakhri’s innocent brown eyes and chubby, sympathedc face floated before
him. The convivial chatter, the apparently unconscious giveaways,
the
way he made you feel that you were in control and he was
just a clumsy, fat pigeon struggling unavailingly in your grasp.

God, Fakhri had run rings round him. He had
round
everybody. Especially the British! The British thought
they were in control and all the time Fakhri, apparently accepting, perpetually
deferring, forever giving way, was doing exactly as he pleased.

And to think they’d got on to him through
Hamid! The super-subtle brought down by the super-simple! It was the kind of
irony Cairo would relish.

It would relish even more, he thought
uncomfortably, the story of how Fakhri had made a monkey of the Mamur Zapt.

Never mind. There would be one person at
least who would not be sharing in the general enjoyment.

Owen waited grimly.

Eventually Fakhri rose to his feet, said his
farewells and came into the warm chamber. After a dutiful interval the two men
followed him.

On their way they nearly collided with a
figure so densely wrapped in towels it was evident he could hardly see. The man
apologized profusely, stepped aside to let them pass ahead of him and then followed.
Owen guessed that it was Mahmoud.

Fakhri went over to the other side of the
room and sat down with his back turned to the two men. They found a couch some
way off and sat down, very obviously waiting.

They had to wait some time.

Fakhri, clearly enjoying his pretending,
called for coffee and then more coffee. He seemed to know everyone in the
hammam. Everyone, that is, except for Owen and the morose, densely towelled
Mahmoud who had planted himself down on the couch next to that of the two men.

After a while Owen himself stood up and
walked on through into the outer room, where he collected his clothes and
valuables. There was no need to hurry through. He could linger as long as he
liked. Here, too, one could sit on cushions and drink more coffee, and enjoy
the singing birds suspended from the pillars in their fine gilt cages. Here,
too, the main object appeared to be conversation. Owen fell into earnest
discussion with his neighbour, a portly gentleman who, it appeared, supplied
chestnuts to half the stands around the Ezbekiyeh Gardens and was more than
happy to describe at length both their virtues and the problems he had in
getting them there. Owen listened

with
rapt attention, a towel draped over
his head to soak up the last drips of moisture.

Out
of the corner of his eye he saw Fakhri come in and collect his clothes. The two
men came in close behind him. They all three went over to one side behind a
pillar and he lost sight of them, though he noticed that Mahmoud, towelling his
head vigorously, had placed himself where he could see them.

The
three emerged from behind the pillar and soon afterwards the two men left.

Fakhri
himself took his time. Even when he had finished dressing he did not leave at
once but fell into conversation with a newcomer. He then spent some time
tipping the attendant.

When,
finally, he left, Owen and Mahmoud were just behind him. As they stepped out
into the warm evening air they drew alongside.

“Hello,
Fakhri,” said Owen.

CHAPTER 11

“No,”
said Fakhri. “No. It wasn’t like that at all.”

“You
arranged the attack,” said Owen. “Are you telling us you didn’t?”

“I
arranged the attack,” Fakhri admitted, “but I didn’t mean him to be hurt.”

“No?”
said Mahmoud sceptically.

“It
was a signal. That was all.”

“Who
was the signal to?” asked Mahmoud.

“Nuri, of course.”

“What
was it saying?”

“You
know,” said Fakhri. He looked at them almost appealingly. “You know it all,” he
said.

“Tell
us.”

They
were in Owen’s office. The others were in the cell below. Hamid had identified
both the men and Fakhri as they entered the baths. When the men came out they
had been followed. They had gone straight to a small square a kilometre or so
away where the other men were waiting. Georgiades had arrested the lot. Now he
was questioning them.

“I
didn’t want to hurt the boy.
Really.
The men were
told—” The brown eyes regarded them anxiously. “They didn’t make a mistake, did
they?”

“Go
on,’’ said Owen, refusing to be drawn.

“I
wouldn’t want you to believe—”

He
read the message in their faces and shrugged his shoulders. “Very well, then,”
he said quietly. “Nuri had been meddling. He is always meddling.
Trying to create new alliances.
His own faction, which is
very small
now,
and other moderates usually. This time
he was after the Nationalists. He was trying to do a deal with Abdul Murr. He
thought that if he could get Abdul Murr to go in with him the Khedive might see
them as a possible government.”

“Never
in a million years!” said Owen.

“He
might!” Fakhri insisted. “If he thought he was securing a new base of popular
support.”

“The
Nationalists would never go along,” said Mahmoud.

“They
would,” said Fakhri, “if they thought there was power at the end of it.”

“Jemal?”
said Mahmoud sceptically. “El Gazzari?”

“Not
them,” Fakhri conceded. “But others would. Abdul Murr.”
“Never!”

“He
might,” said Fakhri. “He’s got very fed up with Jemal and el Gazzari lately.
Understandably,” he added.

“Fed
up is one thing,” said Mahmoud. “Going in with a man like Nuri is another.”

“It’s
not just that,” said Fakhri. “Abdul Murr is no fool. He thinks that if the
Nationalists could once get into power and show they could govern, then the
Khedive wouldn’t be able to do without them.”

It
was plausible. Certainly Owen felt so, and probably Mahmoud felt so. Mahmoud,
however, clearly had
a distaste
for the whole thing.
It ran counter both to his strong dislike of Nuri and his equally strong
sympathy for the Nationalists.

“Nuri
in a Nationalist government?” he said. “I don’t believe it.” “It wouldn’t be a
Nationalist government,” said Fakhri. “The Khedive won’t agree to that. It
would have to be a coalition and Nuri would have to lead it.”

“Lead
it!” cried Mahmoud.

“The
Khedive won’t agree on any other terms,” said Fakhri. “That’s why Nuri is
in such a strong position.”

“They
won’t go along,” said Mahmoud.

“You’d
be surprised!” said Fakhri.

There
was a little silence. Owen could see Mahmoud struggling to come to terms with
what Fakhri had said. He was still reluctant to accept it.

“You
say these things, Fakhri,” he said, “but how real are they?”
“Very
real.”

“How real?”

“Real enough to worry all the other
political groupings.
Real enough,” said Fakhri, with a glance at Owen, “to
worry the Mamur Zapt apparently. When I saw you taking an interest,” he said to
Owen, “I guessed that the British suspected something.”

Owen
let it pass. Sometimes there were dangers in being over-subtle.

He
noticed Mahmoud look at him, however, and wondered if he would have some
explaining to do.

“It
could be a powerful combination,” he said, “the Nationalists
and
the
Khedive.”

“That’s
just it,” said Fakhri. “It worried us, too.”

“Us?”

“Everybody, really.
There are various
factions around the Khedive, rivals of Nuri. They don’t want it to happen. Then
there are the Nationalists themselves. Plenty of them are opposed to it.
Jemal and el Gazzari for a start.
And then, of course,” said
Fakhri, “there are moderate groups, like my own, who are worried about being
left out in the cold.”

“And
you were worried especially.”

“Not
especially,” said Fakhri. “Why do you think that?”

“Because you did something about it.”

Fakhri
was silent for a moment.

“Not
especially,” he said again. “It was just that someone had to do something.”

“And
that someone just happened to be you?” said Owen sceptically.

“Yes,”
said Fakhri defiantly.

Owen
let the pause drag on.

“So
you decided,”
he
said at last, “to send Nuri a
signal?”

“Yes.
We thought that if we sent him a direct warning—”

“By killing Ahmed?”

“Killing?”
Fakhri looked
shaken. “No,” he said, “how could you think that? We wanted to give him a good
thrashing. That was all.” “Why pick on Ahmed?”

“Because he’s Nuri’s
son.
Because Nuri loves him.
Because Nuri
has been using him as a go-between.”

He
looked at Owen.

“I did try to tell you,” he said, almost
reproachfully. “I’ve been trying to point you in his direction. I thought if
you knew how far things had got, you might find a way of stopping it.”

“How
far had they got?” asked Owen.

“Further than
wp
thought they would. Nuri is a cunning old devil. He seemed to be persuading
Abdul Murr. It suddenly looked as if things were coming to a head.
As if he might succeed.”

“Was
that the point of Nuri’s visit to the
al Liwa
offices?”

“Yes. That was part of it, though the real
fixing was to come later, in private. Anyway, we had to do something. I wanted
to let Nuri know that we knew. So—” Fakhri shrugged. “I hired those men. They
didn’t overdo it, did they?”

Again the sympathetic brown eyes regarded
Owen anxiously. Again Owen did not reply. The longer Fakhri was kept on the
hook the better.

“I am sorry,” said Fakhri softly. “It was
just one of those things.
Just politics.”

Even
the coffee did not help. Sensing the mood that Owen was in, Yussuf entered
silently, filled the mug and withdrew without saying a word. The shutters,
which had been opened first thing to air the room, had long since been closed.
Owen had been in for three hours already, and all the time he had been thinking
about what Fakhri had said the evening before.

They had got nowhere, nowhere on anything
really important. Ahmed’s thrashing, his and Nuri’s visit to
al Liwa,
what Nuri was up to, all this had been explained, and it did not seem to have
advanced matters one little jot. The original attack on Nuri, the grenades, the
Tademah connection, if there was a Tademah connection, they knew no more about
now than they did before he and Mahmoud had gone to the hammam.

He had thought for a moment, the moment when
Fakhri had revealed
himself, that
everything had
suddenly tumbled into place. It had been a shock but once he had recovered he
had felt that he had grasped the true pattern. The man behind had finally
declared himself.

But it was not true. Fakhri was not the man
behind, or if he was behind anything, it was only the most trivial parts of the
pattern. At first in his fury Owen had thought Fakhri capable of anything. Now
he had simmered down he realized that Fakhri was not really like that. The
trouble was that Owen believed him. He believed what Fakhri had said the
previous night. That Nuri was scheming along those lines was completely
credible, knowing Nuri. That the Nationalists, or some of them, were
tempted,
was entirely likely, despite what Mahmoud might
think. That the Khedive would play along, distinctly probable.
That the other parties would be worried, certain.
Even that
Fakhri, who was definitely not a man without resource, would take it upon
himself to do something about it.

And if he did decide to intervene, it was
not at all unlikely that he would act in the way he said he had: choosing the
gentler path of issuing a warning, picking his target with perception and
ensuring that things did not go too far. No knives. Owen had noticed it
himself.

The nub of it was that he did not believe
Fakhri was a killer. He had only his feelings to go on, and he had already been
deceived by Fakhri. Still, he stood by his feelings. He did not believe Fakhri
was a killer.

But then, how did he know there was a killer
involved? No one had been killed yet. The attempt on Nuri’s life had not
succeeded. It had been bungled. If someone like Mustafa had been chosen to
perform the actual
act, that
did not exactly argue for
someone behind the scenes who really knew his business, a cold, calculating
killer by proxy.

All he had to go on was the whiff of fear in
the Cairo air. He smelt it himself.

Not just that.
The
grenades.
They were what chilled him. If you went for grenades you meant
business.
In a crowded city especially.
The attack on
Nuri was one thing. At the end of the day it was not very important, and anyway
he could leave that to Mahmoud.

But the grenades were quite another thing.
And that he could not leave to anybody else. They were his pigeon.
Now that he had been put in charge of arrangements for the Carpet,
his pigeon only.

But then, were all these things related to
each other anyway? They might all be separate, nothing to do with each other.
The attack on Nuri, the grenades, Ahmed’s thrashing—they might all be entirely
unconnected, just brought together in his mind because by chance they all came
over his desk in the same week. The last of them, Ahmed’s thrashing, was almost
certainly nothing to do with the other two. Perhaps the other two were not
connected either. They were all separate. The only thing they had in common was
that he had to solve them.

It
wouldn’t do. He knew what was bothering him.
The grenades.
The Carpet.
The only way he could set his mind at rest
about the arrangements for the Carpet was by finding out who had those missing
grenades: finding out and catching them. And the only lead he had to that was
the Syrian, the gun and the attack on Nuri. And on that front he had made
absolutely no progress at all.

As
the morning wore on he became more and more conscious of the Return of the
Carpet hanging over him like a heavy black cloud.

As
soon as Mahmoud spoke, Owen knew that something was wrong.

“Are
you going to be holding Fakhri?” Mahmoud asked, without preamble.

“Yes,”
said Owen, surprised. “I think so.”

“On security grounds?”

“Yes,”
said Owen. “Why?”

“I
would challenge your decision. There seems no security issue. It is a
straightforward criminal offence.”

“So?”

“So Fakhri should be transferred at once
into the custody of the Parquet.”

Owen
held the telephone away from his ear and looked at it. What was wrong with
Mahmoud this morning?

“What’s
the matter?” he asked.

“Nothing’s
the matter. It’s just that I would like Fakhri transferred at once, please.”

“Is
this official?”

“What
do you mean?” The voice sounded slightly puzzled.

“Are
your bosses on to you or something?”

“No
one is on to me at all,” said Mahmoud stiffly.

Owen
found it hard to believe.
Unless—unless something had
happened to upset Mahmoud.
Perhaps at their meeting
yesterday.
He racked his brains to think of what it could be. Something
he had said? It was obviously only too easy to touch off the sensitive Mahmoud.
But he was not aware of having said or done anything which could have this
effect. Something Fakhri had said?

“I
was thinking of questioning him again later today,” he said into the
mouthpiece.

“If
you will see that he’s sent round immediately,’’ said Mahmoud, “I will ensure
that he is properly questioned.”

It
was the “properly” that did it; that, and the lingering, rankling memory of the
“amateur” remark earlier.