“Oh, there is!” said Daouad with great conviction.
“There can’t be!” said Owen. “Who?”
Daouad started to speak, then stopped.
“There just are,” he said.
Owen shook his head, affecting disbelief.
“Some of el Gazzari’s factions are impossible,” Fakhri said to Owen.
“And some of Jemal’s,” said Daouad.
Fakhri chuckled. “And Daouad is not going to tell us which of them he’s thinking of!”
“That’s right,” said Daouad. “I’m not.”
“I promise I won’t print what you say,” said Fakhri.
“It’s not that that worries me,” said Daouad darkly.
“What is it that worries you?” asked Owen.
Daouad looked at his watch.
“I’ve got to go,” he said.
“At any rate,” said Fakhri, “there’s one worry that I’ve got and you haven’t.”
“What’s that?” asked Daouad.
“Money,” said Fakhri.
“Oh, money,” said Daouad, shrugging his shoulders.
“Just so,” said Fakhri. “But if you’re independent like me—”
“I am independent,” muttered Daouad touchily.
“—you’ve always got to be thinking about it. One big fine would close me down.”
“They can close you down without doing that,” said Daouad.
They talked for a little while longer about the difficulties of the censorship. Owen knew he was being got at, but he did not mind. Fakhri was being very helpful. He had certainly earned something. The question was, what did he want? At one point Owen had thought he was angling for a bribe. That could be arranged. But perhaps Fakhri had in mind something less directly financial: greater tolerance if he stepped over the line, perhaps. That, too, was possible.
Daouad looked at his watch again. He shook hands with Owen and Fakhri escorted him to the door. Owen wondered whether he could decently leave himself.
A voice behind him said: “No arts pages in al Liwa.”
It was one of his friends from earlier in the evening.
“A pity,” said Owen, “especially from your point of view.”
“It would be a better paper if it did have them. It’s too one-track at the moment. Boring.”
“That’s because Daouad is boring,” said another of the earlier party, joining them.
“It’s not just that. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t.”
“El Gazzari?” hazarded Owen.
The other two exchanged grimaces.
“Not that Jemal’s any better,” one of them said.
“A pity,” said Owen again. “Fakhri says they’ve got plenty of money.”
“He would. He’s envious.”
“Where do they get it from?” Owen asked. “Party funds?”
“Ah-ha.” One of the young men laid a finger along his nose and winked. The other called to a group standing next to them. “Zeinab!”
A girl turned round. It was the one Owen had spoken to earlier.
“What is it?” she said, coming across to them.
“We want to know where al Liwa gets its money from.”
“Why ask me?”
“We thought Raoul might know.”
“Then ask him,” she said, and walked off.
A tall, distinguished-looking Syrian with silvery-grey hair came over.
“What’s the matter?” he said.
“We thought you could help us,” they said. “We want to know where al Liwa gets its money from.”
The Syrian looked annoyed. “Why should I know?”
“You’re so friendly with al Liwa.”
“I’m friendly with everybody,” the Syrian said.
“I wish you were friendly with Fakhri,” one of the young men said. “Then I could have a bigger column.”
“There’s no money in newspapers,” the Syrian said.
“Except what people put into them,” one of the young men said.
The Syrian looked at him steadily. “I don’t put money into papers,” he said. “I stick to business.”
He rejoined the people he had been talking to previously. A little later, Owen saw him leaving, with the girl.
Chapter Six
Understandably, Owen got into the office late the next day. Nikos and Georgiades were waiting for him.
Nikos cocked an eyebrow.
“How are you feeling?” asked Georgiades.
“Fragile,” said Owen.
“Serve you right,” said Nikos vindictively. He had not forgiven Owen the business about the memo.
Georgiades clucked his tongue disapprovingly at Nikos and led Owen into his office.
“Coffee!” he shouted to Yussuf. “Coffee quickly! The man is dying!”
Yussuf scuttled into the room and poured out a large mug of coffee. He watched sympathetically as Owen did his best to wrap himself round it: cradling it in his hands and letting the warmth move up his arms, sucking in the aroma and then taking a sip and letting it transform itself into a glow in the pit of his stomach.
Georgiades took some, too; in case it was catching, he informed Yussuf.
Owen had not really drunk much the night before. One seldom did at Egyptian parties, even Europeanized ones. However, he had not left Fakhri’s until it had gone four and had had only three hours’ sleep.
He put the mug back on his desk and motioned to Georgiades to draw up his usual chair.
“OK,” he said. “Tell me about Ahmed, then.”
“Nineteen,” said Georgiades, “a student. Second year at the law school. Not very good at his studies. A certain native wit, his teachers think, but inconsistent. Not very well organized. His work doesn’t get done. Too many distractions.”
“Like?”
“Politics. Spends too much time hanging around Nationalist headquarters. Attends meetings. Distributes leaflets.”
“Speaks?”
“No. Gets tied up. His emotion outruns his thinking.”
“Heart’s in the right place but head isn’t.”
“That’s the sort of thing.”
“And how did he come to fall into these bad habits?”
“Before he went to law school his father sent him to Turkey for six months. The idea was for him to make contacts which might be useful to him later. Business, a bit, but mostly the kind of contacts that would help him with the Khedive. Nuri’s good at that kind of lobbying. Anyway, apparently Ahmed didn’t spend much time talking to the kind of people Nuri wanted him to talk to. Instead, he fell in with a group of Young Turks—officers in the Army, stationed at Stamboul. He got to talking politics with them. They were very keen on getting some change in things. Too keen. They got put down by the Secret Police and Ahmed had to leave the country in a hurry. Nuri wasn’t very pleased.”
“And then he came home to Egypt and thought he’d carry on where they left off?”
“That’s the general idea.”
“Young Turk, is he?”
“Not really. More Young Egyptian.”
“Never met that.”
“Treasure it,” Georgiades invited. “You might not meet it again. He’s on his own, this boy.”
“What’s his position? Who’s he against, for a start?”
“The British.”
“I’d spotted that.”
“The Khedive. The Government. The University. His father. The owner of the café. He’s anti most things.”
“Pro anything?”
“Pro the big ideals,” said Georgiades. “Like, me. Including Pan-Islam. Unlike me.”
“Religious, then?”
Georgiades shook his head.
“Come on!” said Owen. “He’s got to be if he
’s Pan-Islam!”
“The boy’s confused.”
“How can you be secular and Pan-Islam?”
“I told you, the boy’s position is unique.”
“What the hell!”
“He has a vision,” said Georgiades, “of a worldwide brotherhood of Arab Nationalists. Big, like I said. Only misty.”
“Anyone else share this vision?”
“Only me,” said Georgiades. “He couldn’t persuade the others in the café.”
Big, sympathetic brown eyes met Owen’s. Georgiades was a marvellous listener. People would tell him anything: their troubles, their hopes, their dreams, their worries; the difficulties they had at work, the problems they had with wife, husband, parents, children. Out it would all come pouring. It was one of the things that made him such a good agent.
“Adopting for the moment a more limited perspective,” said Owen, “who does he tie up with? Not el Gazzari, evidently. Jemal?”
“Not Jemal either. He’s quarrelled with Jemal. He did offer Jemal his services but Jemal made some unflattering remark. About rich landlords’ sons, I believe.”
“His father is a rich landlord,” said Owen. “Is he a rich son?”
“I don’t think he has much money,” said Georgiades. “Nuri keeps him on a tight rein. He doesn’t trust him.”
“I’ll bet that helps their relationship.”
Owen thought for a moment.
“All the same,” he said, “Nuri keeps him on as his secretary.”
“In a funny way,” said Georgiades, “I think he loves him. Anyway,” he added, “the secretarying is pretty nominal.”
The room was dark and cool. Heavy slatted wooden shutters kept light and heat out. They were opened only in the evening when the air had become cooler.
“Nuri loves him,” Owen said. “Does he love Nuri, though?”
“Not according to Nuri.”
“But according to Ahmed?”
“Well,” said Georgiades, “the boy is misunderstood.”
“Really he loves his father?”
“Sure,” said Georgiades, “and hates him.”
He eased himself back on his chair to free his trousers, which were sticking to the seat.
“But not enough to kill him,” he said, “if that’s what you were thinking. He’s not the sort.”
“That’s what his sister said. Half-sister.”
“You been doing research into the family, too? Well, that’s right. He hasn’t got the steel.”
“The job was bungled,” said Owen.
“That raises the question,” said Georgiades, “of what the job was.”
Their eyes met.
“True,” said Owen. “Interesting.”
Nikos stuck his head into the room.
“Have you shown it him yet?”
“What?”
Georgiades took a scrumpled piece of paper out of his pocket and put it on the desk in front of Owen. It was a handbill such as are given out at political meetings. It was in Arabic and the heading, printed bold at both the top and the bottom of the page, was death to the sirdar.
“He was giving these out to students at the law school yesterday,” said Georgiades. “He had a couple of hundred of them.”
“Did you take them off him?”
“Just the one. Do you want me to anything about the others?”
“Too late now,” said Nikos. “You should have taken them all while you were at it.”
“But that would have given me away,” protested Georgiades. “He thinks I’m a supporter. The only one.”
Nikos sniffed. “They’ll be all over the law school by now.”
“You’d be surprised at the indifference of people,” Georgiades said. “Business was not exactly brisk. If you want me to—” he said, turning to Owen.
“No. It’s not worth bothering.”
Owen picked up the handbill and examined it. Seditious leaflets were as common in Cairo as pornographic postcards. It was impossible to control them all and Owen usually contented himself with confiscating a sample and destroying the printer’s type. In the case of leaflets considered inflammatory, however, the working rule was to suppress the run completely. There was not much doubt that this one was inflammatory, but if it had already been distributed it was too late.
“Have you come across any more of these?” he asked.
“No.”
“It’s funny no one else is distributing them,” said Nikos.
“Perhaps he’s the only one dumb enough?” suggested Georgiades.
“That might mean the printer’s not got a proper distribution system set up yet,” said Nikos, disregarding him. He took the handbill from Owen. “I don’t recognize the printer,” he said. “Do you?” he asked Georgiades.
Georgiades shook his head. “He’s new.”
“That fits,” said Nikos.
“How did he get in touch with Ahmed?” asked Owen.
“Or Ahmed with him,” said Georgiades. “An interesting question.” He looked at Owen. “Want me to find who printed this?”
“Yes,” said Owen, “and when you do find him, don’t do anything.”
“You don’t want me to call on him?” asked Georgiades, surprised.
“Not immediately. Not yet. Put a man on him. Not too obviously.”
He could easily accommodate it within his budget. In Cairo it was the bribes that were expensive. The men came cheap.
***
Georgiades and Nikos had hardly left when Nikos was back on the phone.
“I’ve got a call for you,” he said. “Guzman. He wants to talk to you about thefts from Army barracks.”
He cackled loudly and put Guzman through.
“What is this I hear about dangerous lapses in military security?” said the harsh voice.
“I don’t know what you hear,” said Owen. “Do tell me.”
“Your memo to the British Agent—”
“I didn’t know you were on the circulation list,” said Owen.
“You should have put me on,” said Guzman. “The Khedive is interested.”
“Purely internal matter,” said Owen smoothly.
“Internal? Where threats to security are concerned? Perhaps to the Khedive himself? You yourself speak of risk to important people.”
“Not the Khedive, surely?”
He wondered how Guzman had got hold of the memo. By the same means as Owen got hold of the Khedive’s internal memos, he supposed. Still, it was disquieting.
“What are you doing about it?” asked Guzman.
“Setting up appropriate liaison machinery, reviewing existing security arrangements, replacing where appropriate by new ones—that sort of thing,” said Owen.
“About time, too!” snapped the Turk.
“That is, of course, what the memo argues.”
“But you are responsible for security.”
“Oh no,” said Owen. “Not military security. I suggest you talk to the Sirdar.”
And he’ll bloody sort you out, he said under his breath.
“I shall,” said Guzman. “Meanwhile, how are you getting on with your own investigations?”
“Fine,” said Owen. “Fine, thanks.”
“Have you arrested the murderers yet?”
“What murderers did you have in mind?” asked Owen.
“The Nuri murderers. That is your responsibility, isn’t it?” the Turk added sarcastically.
“Afraid not. The Parquet. The police,” Owen said airily.
“And Security?”
“There are, indeed, security aspects,” said Owen. “I’m looking into those. Hence my memo.”
There was a silence at the other end of the phone. Owen wondered whether Guzman had rung off. He was about to put the
phone down when the Turk spoke again.
“The Khedive would appreciate more cooperation from the Mamur Zapt.”
Owen took that, correctly, for a threat.
“You can assure the Khedive of our fullest cooperation,” he said heartily.
Again there was a pause.
“I have not had your report yet,” said Guzman.
“That’s strange!” said Owen. “I sent it off.”
“To me?”
“Of course. Perhaps it’s stuck in your front office?”
“Or yours. Or perhaps you haven’t written it.”
“Oh no,” said Owen. “I have certainly written it. I think.”
“I shall complain to the Agent,” said Guzman, and rang off.
Owen sighed.
Nikos, who had been listening throughout, rang through again.
“Why didn’t you put him on to Brooker?” he asked.
***
In this outer part of Cairo the houses were single-storey. A low mud brick wall screened them and their women from the outside world. Beyond the houses was the desert, flat, grey, empty, except for a few wisps of thorn bushes.
Mahmoud met Owen in the open square where the buses turned.
“I thought it better like this,” he said. “Otherwise you’d never find it.”
He led Owen up a dark alley which narrowed and bent and doubled back on itself and soon lost its identity in a maze of other alleys threading through and connecting the houses. In the poorer suburbs there were no roads. The alleys were the only approach and these were thick with mud and refuse and excrement.
In the dark Owen could not see, but he could smell, and as he stumbled along, his feet skidding and squashing, he could guess. There were, too, the little scurries of rats.
The only light was from the sky. Out here there was no reflected glare from the city’s lights and you could see the stars clearly. The sky seemed quite light compared with the dark shadows of the alleys.
Occasionally you heard people beyond the walls and often there was the smell of cooking. Once or twice the voices came from the roofs where the people had taken their beds and lay out in the evening cool.
The alleys became narrower and the walls poorer and more dilapidated. There were gaps in them where bricks had fallen away and not been repaired. You could see the spaces against the sky.
Some of the bricks had fallen into the alleyways and there were heaps of rubble and other stuff that Owen had to climb over or wade through.
The Mamur Zapt & the Return of the Carpet Page 10