They came out into what at first Owen thought was a small square but in fact was a space where a house had fallen down. He heard Mahmoud talking to someone and then felt Mahmoud’s hand on his arm gently guiding him along a wall. There was a small doorway in the wall, or perhaps it was just a gap. Mahmoud slipped through it and drew Owen after him.
They were in a small yard. Over to one side there was a little oil lamp on the ground, around which some women were squatting. They looked up as Mahmoud approached but did not move away, as women usually would. They wore no veils, and in the light from the lamp Owen could see they were Berberines, their faces marked and tattooed with the tribal scars.
He followed Mahmoud into the house. There was just the single room. In one corner there was a low fire from which the smoke wavered up uncertainly to a hole in the roof, first wandering about the room and filling the air with its acrid fumes. On the floor was another oil lamp, and beside it two people were sitting, one of them a policeman. The other man looked up. He was gaunt and emaciated and plainly uneasy.
Mahmoud muttered something and the policeman left the room. They squatted down opposite the other man.
The smell of excrement was strong in the air. So was another smell, heavy, sickly, sweet. Owen recognized it to be hashish.
The man waited patiently.
Eventually Mahmoud said: “You travel the villages?”
“Iwa,” said the man. “Yes, effendi.”
“You take them the drug?”
“Yes, effendi.”
“Do you take them just the drug, or do you also take them the one that chills?”
The man’s face twitched slightly. “Sometimes I take them the one that chills,” he said in a low voice. He put out his hand pleadingly.
“But not often, effendi. Sometimes—just for a rich omda—that is all.”
“It is bad,” said Mahmoud sternly. “It is bad. -Nevertheless, that is not our concern tonight. Our concern is with something other. Tell us about the other and we shall not ask questions about this. Do you understand?”
“I understand, effendi,” said the man submissively.
“Good. Then let us begin with what you have already said. You travel the villages with the drug.”
“Yes, effendi.”
“Among them the village that we know.”
“Yes, effendi.”
“And at that village you sell the drug.”
“Yes, effendi.”
“To all the men? Do most of the villagers buy?”
“Most of them. They work hard, effendi. This year there is little food. It fills their stomachs,” the man said quietly.
“And among the men,” said Mahmoud, “you sell to the one we spoke of?”
“Yes, effendi.”
“Every time? Or most times?”
“Since Ramadan,” said the man, “every time.”
“Little or much?”
“Little, effendi.”
The man looked at Mahmoud.
“He is a good man, effendi,” he said. “He would not take it from his children.”
“So he bought only a little. But not last time.”
“Last time,” said the man, “he wanted more.”
“Why was that? Did he say?”
“He said that one had given him the means to right a great wrong and that he wished to strengthen himself that he might accomplish it.”
“And what did you say?”
“I warned him, effendi.” The man spoke passionately, pleadingly.
“I warned him. I said, ‘The world is full of wrongs. Try to right them and the world turns over. Better leave it as it is.’”
“And he said?”
The man looked down. “He said, effendi, that a drug-seller was without honour.”
The lamp flickered and the shadows jumped suddenly. Then the flame steadied and they returned to their place.
The man raised his eyes again.
“I warned him,” he said. “I told him that the one who had given him the means was a wrongdoer, for his was not the grudge. That troubled him. He said the one who had given him the means did not know what he intended. I asked him how could that be? But he would say no more.”
“And you said no more?”
“And I said no more.”
“He had the money.”
“He had the money,” the man agreed.
He looked down at the lamp. Mahmoud waited. The silence continued for some minutes. Owen was not used to squatting and desperately wanted to stretch, but he knew that the silence was important and dared not break it.
Eventually the man looked up.
“I think I saw the man, effendi,” he said diffidently, “the wrongdoer.”
“How was that?” asked Mahmoud mildly, almost without interest.
“It was the day of the meeting,” said the man. “Afterwards I saw one from outside the village talking to him. And then again the next day. I stayed in the village that night,” he explained.
“This one from outside the village,” said Mahmoud, “was he young or old?”
“Young, effendi,” said the man immediately. “Not much more than a boy.”
“Rich or poor?”
“Rich. One of the well-to-do.”
“If we showed a man to you,” said Mahmoud, “could you tell us if it was he?”
The man looked at him with alarm. “Effendi, I dare not!” he said. “They would kill me!”
“They?” asked Owen. It was the only time he spoke.
“When one acts in a thing like this,” said the man, “one does not act alone.”
“The man was not alone, then?” said Mahmoud.
“When I saw him he was alone,” the drug-seller said. “I spoke without meaning.”
“If you saw him,” said Mahmoud, “you would know him.”
“I would know him,” the man agreed wretchedly. “But, effendi—”
“Peace!” said Mahmoud. “We will bring you where you will see him but he will not see you. No one will ever know. I swear it.”
“Effendi—” began the man desperately.
“Enough!” Mahmoud held up his hand.
“Do this thing for us,” he said, “which no one shall ever know about, and you shall go in peace. Do not do this thing, and you will never go.”
The man subsided, shrank into himself. Mahmoud rose. He put his hand gently on the man’s shoulder.
“It will soon be over, friend,” he said. “Go in peace.”
“Salaam Aleikham,” said the man, but automatically.
Owen followed Mahmoud out into the courtyard. The two policemen came across and waited expectantly. Mahmoud spoke to them for a couple of minutes and then they went into the house. They emerged with the slight figure of the drug-seller between them. Owen and Mahmoud set out along the alleyway with the others following close behind. In this part of the city it was better to travel as a party. When they reached the space and light of the main road Mahmoud spoke to the constables again and then they went off separately, on foot. He and Owen walked slowly back to where Owen had left his arabeah.
“We’re going to find it’s Ahmed, aren’t we?” said Owen.
“It begins to look like that.”
They walked a little way in silence.
Then Mahmoud said: “I must say, I am a little surprised.”
Owen told him what Georgiades had found out about Nuri’s son and secretary. Mahmoud listened with interest.
“It fits together,” he said. “Mustafa and the Nationalists, Mustafa and Ahmed. Ahmed and the extremists among the Nationalists, if that leaflet really means anything. Those most likely to want to kill Nuri.”
Which made it all the more surprising the next day when one of Owen’s men reported that Nuri and Ahmed had b
een seen visiting al Liwa’s offices: together.
Chapter Seven
“It’s got to be protection,” said Georgiades and Nikos together.
“He’s a rich man,” said Georgiades.
“A natural target,” Nikos concurred.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if several of the clubs were on to him,” said Georgiades.
“They are,” said Owen. “I’ve seen their letters.”
“There you are, then.”
“And checked them out.”
“You got nothing?”
“Nothing.”
“Did you check the right ones?” asked Georgiades.
“I checked the ones I was given,” said Owen, and stopped.
“Given by Nuri’s secretary,” he said. “Ahmed.”
“Yes,” said Nikos, “well…”
“It wouldn’t have made any difference,” said Georgiades. “He wouldn’t have given it you, anyway. And, sure as hell, he won’t give it to you now.”
“Nuri must know,” said Owen.
“Do you think he would tell, though?”
“He told me about the other ones.”
“Did he?” asked Nikos.
Owen shrugged. “He made no difficulty about showing me the letters.”
“Some of them.”
“Did he tell you whether he’d paid them off?” asked Georgiades.
“No,” said Owen. “He rather gave me the impression he disregarded them.”
“He would,” said Nikos.
“Do you think he pays?”
“Of course,” said Nikos.
“Invariably,” said Georgiades.
“Everybody does,” said Nikos.
“Then why did they try to kill him?”
“Did they try to kill him?” asked Georgiades.
Owen looked at him. “Are you suggesting they didn’t?”
Georgiades spread his hands.
“Try this,” he said, “for size. He didn’t respond at once. So they tried to frighten him.”
“Mustafa tried to kill him.”
“It went wrong,” said Georgiades.
“Why did it go wrong?” asked Nikos.
“Because they used that moron Ahmed as a go-between. He set it up wrongly.”
“Ahmed would try to extort money from his own father?” asked Owen.
Georgiades spread his hands again, palms up, open as the Cairo day.
“Why not?” he said. “Better than trying to kill him.”
Owen frowned. “It makes sense,” he said. “Some sense. Neither you nor Zeinab thought he was of the stuff that killers are made of.”
“Who is this Zeinab?” asked Nikos.
“A girl,” Georgiades told him. “He’s been doing some research of his own.”
“He’s been writing some memos of his own, too,” said Nikos, still unforgiving.
“But there remains the difficulty,” said Owen, disregarding them, “that the societies, or most of them, are professional and Ahmed is a bungling amateur. Why does a professional use an amateur?”
“Because he’s Nuri’s son?” offered Nikos.
“I still don’t see—”
“It adds to the pleasure,” said Nikos. “Their pleasure. To use the son against the father,” he explained patiently.
“Now you’ve shocked him,” said Georgiades to Nikos. “Anyway, I can think of another explanation.”
“What’s that?”
“They wanted to give him something to do. Always hanging around. Get him out of their hair.”
“I prefer that explanation,” Owen said to Nikos.
Nikos smiled, worldly-wise.
“We’re still left with the old question, though,” said Owen. “Who’s ‘they’?”
“We know the answer now, don’t we?” asked Georgiades.
“Do we?”
“The ones Nuri and Ahmed went to see at al Liwa.”
But that was strange. For the person Nuri and Ahmed had talked to at al Liwa, they later learned from their agent, was Abdul Murr.
***
Much to Owen’s surprise, for he had neither expected nor intended the memo to have such an effect, there were three other responses besides Guzman’s to the memo that day.
The next came at lunch-time. Owen had gone as usual to the club and as he was going in to the dining-room someone hailed him through the open door of the bar.
It was one of the Consul-General’s bright young men, a personal friend.
“Hello, Gareth,” he said. “Can I catch you for a minute?”
He led Owen out on to the verandah and they sat down at a table where they were unlikely to be disturbed.
“It’s about that memo of yours,” he said, “the one about lapses in military security.”
“Look, Paul—” Owen began hastily.
“The Old Man’s concerned. He had the SPG in first thing this morning. Told him a thing or two. And not before time, I must say! The Army behaves as if it’s on a bloody island of its own. Has its own procedures, won’t talk to anyone else, won’t even listen to anyone else. Thinks it knows it all and in reality knows bloody nothing! The Egyptians mightn’t be here at all as far as it’s concerned. And much the same goes for the Civil Branch. We might as well not exist. The Army goes clumping in with its bloody great big boots. Half our time is spent trying to make up for the damage it’s already bloody caused and the other half trying to anticipate what it’s going to cock up next. Liaison—you talk about liaison in your mem—Jesus! they can’t even spell the word!”
“Some of them particularly,” said Owen, pleased.
“You’re dead right! Military Security in particular. Mind you, you get all the dummos in that. A fine pig’s ear they’ve been making of things! Supplying arms and ammunition to half the bloody population. And making a few bob out of it on the side, I’ll bet. Those bloody Army storesmen are about as straight as a corkscrew—an implement with which they are all too familiar.”
“Now, now, Paul,” said Owen. “They drink beer.”
“You’re bloody right they do! No wonder the place is a desert. Anything liquid they bloody consume.”
“The trouble is,” said Owen, “the Sirdar will never do anything.”
“Oh yes he will. This time. The Agent was on to him directly. He’s at risk, too. Great minds think alike for once.”
“You reckon the memo might have some effect?”
“It already has. Sirdar’s already kicked some people up the ass.”
“He has?” said Owen happily.
“He certainly has.”
Paul leaned forward and spoke a trifle more quietly but just as vehemently.
“And with bloody good reason,” he said. “Because do you know what came out? The Old Man demanded to know if anything had been stolen recently. The SPG had to tell him. And—can you believe it? It turned out that a box of grenades had vanished from Kantara barracks only last Tuesday! Grenades! A box! Jesus!”
“Kantara?” said Owen. “That’s interesting.”
“Is it? Well, perhaps it is to you. I must say, Gareth, they’re pretty impressed with you. Timely prescience, the Agent called it. Even the Sirdar thought it was damn good intelligence work.”
“Well, there you are,” said Owen modestly.
“But what interests me,” said Paul, “was that it was a whole bloody box. Could cause absolute havoc if they start chucking a few of those around. And it’s just when we’ve got all the festivals coming up! We’ve got the Carpet next week and the place will be stiff with notables all hanging around for someone to take a pot shot at. Even the Khedive has been persuaded to come to receive the plaudits of his loyal and appreciative subjects. And I’m organizing our side! Christ!”
“The Agent?”
>
“And the Sirdar!”
“McPhee’s very good,” said Owen.
“He’ll have to be,” said Paul gloomily, “if the Army is issuing arms to the whole population of Egypt.”
***
“Is this real?” asked Garvin.
He had an unfortunate way of going to the heart of things.
“I am afraid it is, sir,” said Owen, straightforward and thanking his lucky stars for the conversation at lunch-time. “A box of grenades went missing from Kantara only this week.”
“I know,” said Garvin. “The Sirdar told me.” He still looked sceptical. “I must say I was a little surprised at your memo. I hadn’t noticed any build-up. Still, I dare say you rely on information which does not come through in the ordinary way.”
He looked down at the papers in front of him. Garvin’s distaste for paper-pushing was well known.
“That’s right, sir,” said Owen immediately. He felt he was sounding too much like McPhee. “And a lot of it of very dubious quality. But when it all points in one direction—”
“And this did?”
“Enough to risk a judgement,” said Owen.
Surprisingly, Garvin seemed satisfied.
“Well,” he said, “it seems to have been a good judgement. Both the Agent and the Sirdar are pleased with you. And that doesn’t happen often.”
One of the reasons for that, Owen felt like saying, was that neither of them was particularly anxious to hear about the Mamur Zapt’s activities; and Garvin usually thought it politic not to enlighten them.
“The only trouble is,” said Garvin, “that now they’ll expect you to do something.”
“I’ve outlined several things in my memo—” Owen began.
Garvin brushed this aside.
“About the grenades,” he said.
The conversation was beginning to take an unprofitable direction.
“Isn’t that rather Military Security’s pigeon?” Owen asked.
“Not any longer. The grenades are out of the camp, aren’t they?”
Owen was forced to admit that this was so.
“They’ll have to give me some information,” he said.
“They will. This time.”
“We’d never even have heard about the grenades if it had not been for my memo,” he said, still hoping to deflect Garvin back to safer paths.
The Mamur Zapt & the Return of the Carpet Page 11