The Mamur Zapt and the Return of the Carpet (25 page)

“Cross
my heart and hope to die.”

“I
shouldn’t hope to die,” said Garvin. “Someone might take you seriously.”

“I’m
not involved in any other way.”

Garvin
weighed the assurance dispassionately. Apparently he came to the conclusion
either that Owen was speaking the truth or that it did not matter if he was
not, for he said: “OK then. I’ll see what I can do.”

He
shook the tiny bazaar bell on his desk and asked the orderly to bring him a
form.

Owen
was a little disquieted. He had not expected Garvin to envisage other
possibilities. Having the law on their side, the English did not need to have
recourse to such things, although Owen knew that most of the countries around
them did. Perhaps it was just Garvin’s chilly way.

Garvin
made out the form.

“I
shall take this to Harry personally,” he said.

Harry
was the adviser to the Interior Minister.

“The
Minister himself has to sign it. Harry will get him to do that, but I can’t
answer for its confidentiality afterwards. Not five minutes afterwards!”

“Let
me make a phone call,” said Owen, “and I’ll be ready to move.”

Owen
made his phone call. Garvin saw Harry and gave the deportation order into
Owen’s own hands. The order was served immediately on a Guzman who for once was
taken by surprise. A handful of picked men escorted him to the docks and put
him on an Istanbul-bound steamer where he was placed at once in a locked cabin
with a man, again picked, outside the door. And within an hour the steamer was
nosing out into the Mediterranean.

Owen
and Georgiades watched it go.

“Suleiman
will be all right,” said Georgiades. “The problems will start at the other
end.”

“They’ll
be problems for Guzman,” said Owen.

When
Owen got back to Cairo he called in Nuri to see him. That was twice in two days
and Nikos was doubly impressed.

Nuri,
however, was not surprised.

“It’s
always best to move fast in these matters,” he said.

“How
fast we move depends on you,” said Owen.

“Ah?”

Nuri
settled himself back in the chair to hear the terms of the deal. “In things
like this,” said Owen, “the pawns are not important.” “Just so,” said Nuri,
“the Mustafas.”

“The Ahmeds.”

Nuri
was a little surprised at the classification but saw that it had potential and
nodded polite agreement.

“What
matters,” said Owen, “are the persons moving the pawns.” Nuri looked at Owen
quickly but said nothing. Perhaps he feared that this extension of the
classification was directed at him.

“Take
the attack on you, for instance,” said Owen. “Mustafa was only a tool. So was
Ahmed.
A more complex one, possibly, but still only a tool.
He took some things on himself—”

“Foolishly.”

“Foolishly,”
Owen agreed, “but generously. He wanted to put the world to rights—”

“He’s
young,” said Nuri, but looked pleased.

“—but
basically he was being used. It’s the people who were using him that I’m
concerned with.”

“Yes?”

“I
was wondering how you felt about Guzman.”

Nuri
took his time about replying. Owen knew that he was figuring out all the
angles.

“Guzman
is a dangerous man,” he said eventually.

“Yes.
Did you know how dangerous?”

Nuri
shook his head.

“No,”
he said. “He’s always been secretive. I knew he was fanatical and suspected he
was extremist. But I did not imagine that he was so actively involved.”

“You
worked with him?”

“Well,”
said Nuri, “alongside him. We were never close.”
“Rivals?”

“You
could call it that.”

“He
let Ahmed have the gun. Is that his way with rivals?”

Nuri
was silent.

“I’m
not saying he meant Mustafa to kill you,” said Owen, “but I don’t think he
would have minded if he had.”

Nuri
smiled wintrily.

“I
think that is an accurate assessment,” he agreed.

“Why
is that?” asked Owen. “Is he like that with everybody or has he got something
particular against you?”

“Both,”
said Nuri. “He is like that with everybody
and
he has something
particular against me.”

“And
you’re not going to tell me what that something particular is.” “No,” said
Nuri. “I am not.”

They
both laughed.

“It
doesn’t matter,” said Owen, “because I think I know it already.” “Ah!” said
Nuri, and laughed, but took it in.

“Your negotiations with Abdul Murr.”

Nuri said
nothing; but Owen saw that the remark registered. “However,” he said, “
that
is not my concern at the moment. What I want to know is
this: is he going to try again?
More seriously this time?”

“To kill me?”
Nuri’s eyes rested
thoughtfully on the ivory carving of his stick. “Possibly,” he acknowledged,
looking up at Owen.

“I
was wondering if it would be a good idea to take measures,” said Owen.

Nuri’s
eyes met his unblinkingly.

“That
could be arranged,” he said quietly.

Owen
saw that Nuri had misunderstood him.

“Not
that,” he said.

“Oh?”

“Guzman
left the country this morning.”

“Really?”
said Nuri, surprised.
“Already?
How
disappointing!”
“Not very,” said Owen. “We pushed him. We put him on a
boat.
The
San Demetriou.
It left Alexandria
this morning.”

Nuri
looked puzzled.

“Then—?”

“For Istanbul.
He’s in a locked
cabin and will stay there until he arrives.”

Nuri
still looked puzzled.

“We
thought the Sultan might like to know.”

Nuri’s
face cleared.

“Ah!”
he said. “I am beginning to understand.”

“Someone,
of course, would need to let him know.
Privately.
And
without going through too many people.”

“I
understand now exactly,” said Nuri.

He
rose to his feet and held out his hand.

“A
pleasure!” he said.
“A real pleasure!”

As
he got to the door he looked back.

“And
my stupid son?” he asked.

“What
you were suggesting the other day,” said Owen, “sounds entirely reasonable.”

The
next person to call on the Mamur Zapt was Fakhri.

He
came at Owen’s request and was more than a little nervous. Owen, however, held
out a welcoming hand.

“I’m
hoping you might be able to help me,” he said.

“You
want
me
to help
you?”
asked Fakhri.

“That’s
right,” Owen agreed amiably.

Fakhri
appeared even more nervous.

“I
am, of course, at your service,” he said cautiously.

“I’d
like an article placed,” said Owen, “somewhere where political people will read
it.”

“What
sort of article?”

“Oh, just a review of the current political
scene.
It would, however, refer in passing to attempts by Nuri Pasha to form an
alliance with moderate elements in the Nationalist Party and say that such
attempts showed every sign of succeeding.”

“Look,”
said Fakhri, “if we’d wanted to publish an article like that we could have done
so months ago.”

“I
know,” said Owen.

“But
we didn’t. And do you know why? Because of the harm it would do. It would play
straight into the hands of extremists like el Gazzari and Jemal.”

“I
know,” said Owen.

“You
know?” said Fakhri, staring. “Then why do you want it? It would mean the end of
Abdul Murr—of perhaps the last real chance of the Nationalists developing as a
moderate Parliamentary party.”

“I
know.”

‘‘Then
why—?”

Fakhri
stopped as realization dawned.

‘‘I
see,” he said. “You don’t want a moderate Parliamentary party.” “Not a strong
one.”

“You’d
prefer the Nationalists to be in the hands of the extremists because that would
mean they would be discredited.”

“And
divided,” said Owen.

“So that the British could go on ruling.”

“The
Khedive rules, we only advise.”

Fakhri
swallowed. “I don’t like it,” he said.

“Why
not?” asked Owen. “Other moderates will benefit if the Nationalists become
extremist.”

“As
you very well know,” said Fakhri bitterly, “we are just as divided.”

“This
is your chance, then.”

“You
may find it hard to believe this,” said Fakhri, “but I care more about seeing
parliamentary democracy established in Egypt than I do about my own political
career.”

“Very
fine,” said Owen, “but not very realistic.”

Fakhri
sat quiet.

“I
am sorry,” he said at last, “but I cannot help you.”

“With the article?
A
pity.
It won’t make any difference, you know. I shall find another way
of placing it.”

“I
would prefer not to be involved.”

“You’re
already involved,” said Owen. “You involved yourself. Remember?”

“And
this is the punishment?”

“Call
it a warning,” said Owen.

“I’d
rather go to prison,” said Fakhri with dignity.

“It
would be a waste.
A mere gesture.”

“And
the Egyptians are prone to gestures. I still think it’s one I’d like to make.”

Owen
let him go and Nikos showed him out. Afterwards, Georgiades came into the room.

“I
like that little man,” said Georgiades, who had been listening outside. “What
are you going to do with him?”

“Nothing.”

“The article?”
“I’ll place it somewhere
else.”

“How
about
al Liwa?”
suggested
Georgiades.

John
rang.

“What’s
all this?
This chap
Guzman getting away?”

“Not
quite,” said Owen, and told him.

“That’s
lovely,” said John happily. “The Sirdar will like that. He really will!”

Then Paul.

“The
Khedive’s protested.”

“He
has?”

“Your
action is precipitate and unjustified. He says.”

“What
did the Agent say?” asked Owen.

“That
he was bloody lucky he didn’t find himself on the boat, too, since the Sirdar
was inclined to be even more precipitate.”

They
both laughed.

“Actually,”
said Paul, “the Old Man thinks it’s neat. No fuss. No bother.
Effective.
Nice to have a Mamur Zapt who’s got a bit of
touch, he said. No, he really did.”

The
article appeared in a first-rate political weekly and was much read. Abdul Murr
was discredited. The two extremist wings of the Nationalist Party turned on him
and devoured the moderates. Afterwards, they turned on each other.

Nuri’s
plans, of course, fell through.
Those plans.
Being
Nuri, he soon had others.

Ahmed
was sent on a long course of study to France.

Mustafa
was discreetly released, completely bewildered by the whole affair and content
that matters should rest in the capable hands of his wife. Her sister was duly
delivered and looked after.

When
the
San Demetriou
docked at Istanbul there was a reception committee for
Guzman, and Owen rather lost touch with what happened after that.

He
himself took Zeinab to the opera.

About the Author

Michael
Pearce grew up in the (then) Anglo-Egyptian Sudan among the political and other
tensions he draws on for this book. He returned there later to teach and
retains a human rights interest in the area. In between whiles his career has
followed the standard academic rake’s progress from teaching to writing to
editing to administration. He finds international politics a pallid imitation
of academic ones. Pearce lives in England.