The Mamur Zapt and the Return of the Carpet (7 page)

The
tea-seller put the urn back on his stall with a thump. Without asking, he drew
a glass of tea and handed it to Owen.

“Watching,”
he said, “is thirsty work.”

The
only students on the square now were walking in ones and twos, sometimes
supporting a third. Around the edges of the square, though, the foot police
were still in action,
prising
out the students from
their hiding-places among the stalls and chairs. Owen was pleased to see that
McPhee had them well in hand. It was only too easy for them to get out of
control in a situation such as this.

McPhee,
helmetless and with his fair hair all over the place, was plainly enjoying
himself. His face was lit up with excitement. It was not that he was a violent
man; he just loved, as he would have put it, a bit of a scrap. Strange, thought
Owen, for he was a civilian, an exteacher. On second thoughts perhaps it was
not so strange.

He
was using a cane, not a pick-handle. He had a revolver at his waist but had not
drawn it throughout the whole business, even when he had been threatened in the
car.

He
was driving slowly round the square now, ostensibly chivvying the students, in
fact, Owen noted,
calling
off his men.

At
the far side of the Place the mounted troop had reformed and was sitting at
ease, the horses still excited and breathing heavily, pick-handles now hanging
loosely again from the riders’ wrists.

Georgiades
reappeared.

He
spotted the tea-seller and came up to the stall.

“Here
is a man who deserves to be favoured of Fortune,” he said, “the first man back
on the street with his tea.”

“I
shall undoubtedly be rich,” said the tea-seller, “but not yet.”

He
made Georgiades some mint tea. The Greek took the glass and stood casually by
Owen.

“See
how our friend is already rewarded!” he said to Owen. “Heads are the only thing
damaged on the street today.”

“And
my head not among them,” said the tea-seller.

He
took the lid off the urn, looked inside and went to fetch some more water.

Georgiades
turned so that he was looking out over the Place.

“Your
little friend,” he said quietly.

“Yes?”
said Owen, equally quietly, and turning, too. They might have been discussing
the demonstration.

“You
saw where he went?”

Georgiades
nodded.

“Not
far.”

Owen
waited. A student limped past.

“Where
did he go?”

“To a newspaper office.”

“He
would!” said Owen. “Which?”

“Al Liwa
. ”

“Might
have guessed,” said Owen, recalling the chanting he had heard.
Al Liwa
was the recently established organ of the National, or Hisb-el-Watani, Party.

“They’d
have heard, anyway,” said Georgiades, thinking Owen was worried about the
paper’s reaction to the breaking up of the demonstration.

“It’s
not that,” said Owen.

He
told Georgiades about Nuri Pasha. With another agent he might not have been so
forthcoming. The Greek, however, was reliable.

“Funny
friends the boy has,” said Georgiades, “for a son of Nuri Pasha.”

“He
hates his father,” said Owen, “or so his father told me.”

“His
father is not very popular with the Nationalists either,” said Georgiades,
touching his chin where the barber had skimped.

“Yes.
Interesting, isn’t it?”

“Want
me to put a man on him?”

“Not
yet. You’ve got someone on the
al Liwa
offices?”

“Selim.
He’s quite bright.”

“OK. Tell
him to keep an eye open for young Ahmed.” Georgiades nodded.

“I’ll
do a bit of digging, too,” he said.

The
tea-seller returned, piloting a small boy staggering under the weight of a huge
water-jar. Georgiades drained his glass.

“May
the streets be full of trouble!” he said to the tea-seller.
“So
that you can make your fortune.”

“Thank
you,” said the tea-seller, “for your kind wishes.”

CHAPTER 4

Owen
had arranged for the sergeant to be brought to the Kasr el Nil barracks and the
following morning he went down to interrogate him.

He
met Mahmoud at the bridge and they walked into the barracks together.

The
guards at the main gate eyed the Egyptian curiously but noncommittally and
pointed out the administration block, a large, old-fashioned building with
lattices and sentry-boxes.

Their
way to it took them past a vast, sanded parade ground on which soldiers were
drilling. A squad approached them along the edge of the square. As it passed,
the drilling sergeant gave them an eyes-right.
Owen, who was
in Army uniform, acknowledged with a salute.
His eye took in their hot,
strained faces. New from England, he thought; and fairly new to the Army, too,
judging by their awkwardness.

The
sentry-boxes and lattices were touched up with white, but inside the
administration block everything was a darker, more restful green. A huge
three-bladed fan rotated above the heads of the clerks bent at their desks in
the orderly room.

One
of the clerks collected the passes from Owen and disappeared into an inner
room. A moment or two later a corporal came out with them in his hand, greeted
Owen and called to a bearer squatting on the floor by the door. The man hurried
out.

“It’s
all laid on, sir,” said the corporal. “The escort got in about half an hour ago
and is waiting in the guard-room. They’ll bring him over directly.”

“Fine,”
said Owen. “Have you got a suitable room?”

“There’s
one we normally use for this sort of thing,” said the corporal. “I’ll take you,
sir.”

He
registered Mahmoud’s presence.

“Mr.
el Zaki,” said Owen.
“From the Parquet.”

“Good
morning, sir,” said the corporal politely.

“I’d
like him to listen in.”

“Oh,”
said the corporal, and hesitated. “A bit difficult, sir,” he said, after a
moment.

“I
don’t want anything too special,” said Owen. “Is there a room next door? Yes?
Well, stick a chair in that and leave the door open. That should be enough.”

“Yes,
sir,” said the corporal, but looked unhappy. His eyes sent desperate signals to
Owen, which Owen refused to read. He knew very well what the trouble was. The
Army guarded its privileges jealously. One of those was that its soldiers were
subject to no legal processes but its own. It would not allow its men to be
brought before any civilians, much less Egyptian civilians.

“Mr.
el Zaki will not be actually present,” he pointed out helpfully.

“I—I
know, sir,” said the corporal, thinking hard.

“You
have the passes.”

“Yes, sir.”
The corporal
glanced at them uncomfortably. “They— they don’t actually say, sir—” he began
with a rush and then stopped.

“They
wouldn’t,” said Owen. He was on tricky ground. He could not insist. “But they
do authorize Mr. el Zaki to come with me. And the reason for that is plain,
Corporal,” he added, with just a little amount of stress, pulling his rank.

“Yes,
sir,” the corporal responded automatically to the inflection, “of course sir.”

“Then—?”

The
corporal made up his mind.

“I’ll
have to check, sir,” he said. “Sorry, sir,” he added apologetically.

He
went off along the corridor. Because of the heat all the rooms had their doors
open, and so Owen was able to hear very clearly the explosion at the far end of
the building.

“A bloody Gyppy?
Certainly
not!”

Heavy
footsteps hurried down the corridor and a flushed major burst into the room.

“What
the—” he began, and then, seeing Mahmoud, stopped.

Even
the Army had to make some effort to keep up appearances.

“Would
you step this way, Captain?” he said stiffly, and stalked off up the corridor.

In
his room he wheeled on Owen.

“What
the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?”

“I’d
like el Zaki to listen in.” “He can’t. I’m not having one of our men questioned
by a bloody native.”

“He’s
a member of the Parquet, for Christ’s sake!”

“Still
a bloody native as far as I’m concerned,” said the major, “and I’m not having
him question one of our men.”

“Who
the hell said anything about him questioning anybody? I’m questioning. He’s
listening.”

“Same thing.”

“It’s
not the same thing. He’ll be in a separate room. All I want is the doors open.”

“Can’t
be done,” said the major flatly.

“I’d
like it done.”

The
major’s cheeks tightened.

“Would
you, now,” he said sarcastically. “And just who the hell are you?”

“I’m
the Mamur Zapt,” said Owen. “And I’ve got authorization to interrogate, and I’d
like to bloody get on with it.”

The
major looked at him hard. Then he went across to his desk and sat down.

“You’re the
Mamur Zapt, are you?” He spoke with distaste. “That’s right,” said Owen.
“OK?”

“You
can question him,” said the major, with a stress on the “you.” “He can’t.”

“I
don’t want him to question. I want him to listen.”

“He
can’t.”

“I
want facilities made available for him to listen in.”

The
major looked at the papers on his desk.

“It
doesn’t say anything about that here,” he said.

“It
doesn’t have to.”

“For
something like this,” said the major, “I’d need authorization.” “You don’t
usually.”

“I
do this time,” said the major. He thought for a moment and then smiled. “Yes,”
he said, “that’s right. For something like this I’d need special authorization.
In writing.”

“That would
be too late. The man’s coming out on Thursday.”
“Pity!”

Owen
considered going over the major’s head, directly to the commander-in-chief. He
knew one of the Sirdar’s aides-de-camp.

The
major must have seen him look at the telephone, for he said: “I’d need it in
writing.
From the Sirdar.
Personally.”

It
would take too long. Even if he got through to John, John would need time to
clear it.

The
major was watching him. “OK?” he said.

“Not
OK,” said Owen.

“Dear, dear!”

“There’s
a certain amount of rush on.”

“Difficult.”

“Could
be,” said Owen.
“For you.”

“Why me?”
The major raised
eyebrows.

“If things go wrong.”

“Why
should they?”

Owen
carried on as if he hadn’t heard.

“Especially if it came out why they went
wrong.”

“I’ll
risk that.”

All
the same the major must have felt a little uneasy, for he said: “You won’t get
anything out of him. Not if he’s coming out on Thursday.”

“I’ll
risk that,” said Owen. “It’s just that I’d like el Zaki to listen in.”

“Didn’t
you hear?” asked the major.
“In writing.
From the Sirdar.
Personally.”

Owen
sighed.

“Anything
else I can do for you?” asked the major.

“No,”
said Owen. “Not yet.”

He
turned to go,
then
stopped.

“Oh,
just one thing—”

“Yes?”

“Major
… ?”

“Brooker,”
said the major. “Major Brooker.”

“Thank
you,” said Owen. “That was it.”

“It
wasn’t my fault, sir,” the ex-sergeant said. “I trusted those bloody Gyppies.
That bloody ’Assan.
He’d got it all figured out. He had his
mates outside. ’Course, I was wrong to trust him. That was my mistake.”

Ingenuous
blue eyes met Owen’s. Owen, who did not believe a word of it, decided to play
along.

“Tell
me about this Hassan,” he said.

“Bloody orderly, sir.
Used
to run messages.
’Ere, there and everywhere.
Kept his eyes open.
Didn’t miss much.”

“You
think he tipped somebody off?”

“Or let them in, sir. There was a skylight
found open. You know, I’d been looking at that bloody skylight a couple of days
before. There was only a simple catch on it and I thought to myself: Anyone
could open that. But I didn’t bother much because it was so small. I thought:
Nobody can get in there. But do you know what I think, sir? The way it was
done?”

He leaned forward confidentially.

“They slipped in one of those walads.
A boy.
Probably stripped him naked and greased him all over.
Seen it done.
At Ismailia.
Bloody gang of kids.
Went all through the
mess.
Watches, cash, even your bloody handkerchief.
The
little bastards.
But they got too cocky and the guards caught one of
them.
Brought the little bugger to me.
I caught hold
of him and was going to teach him a thing or two but he slipped through my
hands. That’s how I knew he was greased.
Didn’t do him much
good.
The guard caught him with the rifle butt.”

“And you think that’s what may have happened
here?”

“Can’t swear to it,
sir.
But the skylight was open the morning after, and it was only big enough for a
kid.”

“Could be,” Owen agreed.

“ ’Course
, it was my fault,
sir,” said the man. “I admit that. I should have kept my eyes open. I made a
mistake. But I’ve paid for it.”

The weathered, experienced face, which
retained
a sunburn
despite nearly a year’s
confinement, assumed a virtuous expression.

An old hand at the game, thought Owen.
Twenty-five years in the Army, fifteen of them in India. There was not much he
didn’t know. Three times reduced, each time made up again. Crafty, plausible,
he would know how to make himself useful. How willing would he be to be useful
now?

“Pity
to get into trouble just because of a Gyppy,” he said aloud. “I know, sir,”
said the ex-sergeant, as if ruefully. “I could have kicked myself.”

“It’s easy done,” said Owen.

“My mistake was to trust the bleeders. I
treated them decent. That ’Assan was a useful bloke. Smart. He did me a favour
or two, and I did him a few.
Used to give him fags.
And not say nothing if I caught him smoking in the armoury.”
He grimaced.
“Should have.
That was my mistake.”

“In the armoury?”

“I know, sir. I dare say that’s what gave
him the idea.”

Thin trickles of sweat ran down on either
side of the man’s nose.

There
was no fan in the room and it was very hot. The one window, high up in the
wall, was shuttered. The door was closed.

“Did
he ever talk?”

“ ’Assan
? He went missing
that night.”

Very convenient, thought Owen.
And part of it
might even be true. They might well have used the skylight, might even have
slipped a boy in, as the man had said. Only, of course, he knew more about it
than he had let on. How much did he know? Not much, if it was just a matter of
money passing and agreement to turn a blind eye. Hassan could even have been
the go-between.
In which case the ex-sergeant would not know
anyone else.

Owen
looked through the file in front of him. One of the times the ex-sergeant had
been reduced was for selling Army equipment. Not weaponry—the Army took that
seriously.
Odds and ends from the stores.
At least,
that was all they had caught him for. The chances were that he had flogged
quite a lot more. And once a seller … The idea might have come to him
again. He had been running a woman in Ismailia and had needed the cash. He
might have approached somebody. There was always a ready market for weapons. He
might have known someone.
Worth a try.

Owen
studied the face opposite him.
Shrewd, Army-wise, hard.
A drinker’s face.
Little red veins beneath the tan,
tell-tale puffiness below the eyes. In certain circumstances, thought Owen, I
could crack this man.

But not easily.
Not here, and
probably not now. He was sitting there at ease. He knew he was coming out on
Thursday. All he had to do was to sit tight and say nothing. There was no way
of putting him under pressure.