The Mamur Zapt & the Return of the Carpet

by Michael Pearce

  “Probably not,” Garvin agreed cheerfully.

  “Still,” he said, “with your contacts—You must have had something to go on in writing your memo.”

  The scepticism had definitely returned.

  “Of course,” Owen agreed hastily. “Of course.”

  “However,” he went on after a moment, “nothing on this, I’m afraid.”

  “It will all fit in,” said Garvin, relaxed. “Never underrate your sources.” It was a favourite maxim of his.

  “No,” said Owen.

  A suffragi brought in some papers for Garvin to sign. He read them carefully and signed deliberately. Although he had been to Cambridge he always gave the impression that writing came hard to him.

  “All I’ve got to go on at the moment,” said Owen, “is that they were taken from Kantara. I’m interested in Kantara for another reason. That’s where the gun came from which was used against Nuri Pasha.”

  He told Garvin about the sergeant. Garvin was not very concerned.

  “Probably happening all the time,” he said. “They probably all do it.”

  “And they all know where to take it to,” said Owen.

  “Yes,” Garvin admitted. “There is that.”

  “Military Security haven’t done anything about that angle,” said Owen, still hoping.

  “Nor have we,” said Garvin. “You’d better start.”

  ***

  Owen returned unhappily to his room. This did not appear to be working out as he had hoped.

  There was a message on his desk to ring one of the Sirdar’s aides.

  “Hello, John,” he said.

  “Gareth? That you? Thank goodness for that. I’ve got to go out this evening—the Sirdar’s holding a reception—and I wanted to catch you first. It’s about that memo.”

  “Yes?” said Owen, warily now.

  “What’s going on?”

  “I’m trying to shake that bugger, Brooker.”

  “Reasonable. He needs shaking. But why bring the whole firmament down as well?”

  “Have you got caught up in it?” asked Owen. “Sorry if you have.”

  “Oh, that’s all right,” said the other. “I’m not directly involved. The thing is, though, that I’ve been talking to Paul, and he’s reminded me that we’ve got this blasted Carpet thing on next week. I’ve got to be holding the Sirdar’s hand at the time and I don’t want to be fending off grenades while I’m doing it.”

  “You’ve got the other hand free,” said Owen.

  “Thank you. Oh thank you.”

  “It’ll be all right,” said Owen. “McPhee’s quite sound.”

  “He’s thick as a post. And erratic as well.”

  “He’s OK at this sort of thing. Anyway, we’ll double up security all round.”

  “The Sirdar thinks something extra is needed.”

  “Such as?”

  “Don’t know. You’re the one who’s supposed to have ideas on things like that. The Sirdar thinks you’re smart.”

  “I am, I am.”

  “He doesn’t want just a routine operation this time. I must say I’m right with him.”

  “I’ll speak to McPhee.”

  “You’re the one in charge.”

  “No, I’m not. I’m sort of in the background,” Owen explained.

  “Not this time. Haven’t you heard?”

  Owen’s heart began to sink.

  “No,” he said. “Tell me.”

  “Sorry to be the one to break the news. Thought it would have got through by now.”

  “It hasn’t.”

  “Well, the Sirdar wanted security augmented. He offered the Army. The Agent said no thanks. Wisely. The Sirdar said this was a special situation. The police couldn’t be expected to cope with terrorism. The Agent thought there was something in that. They decided that what was needed was someone who knew about that sort of thing. You. Congratulations.”

  “Christ!” said Owen.

  “Help me catch the grenades, then?”

  “I’ll throw the bloody grenades,” said Owen.

  John roared with laughter.

  “At any rate,” he said, “you’ll be spared the assistance of Military Security. Unless you want it. I offer you Brooker.”

  “That stupid bastard! It’s all his fault,” said Owen unfairly.

  “If he gets in your hair anymore,” John offered, “tell me. I’ll get him posted to Equatoria.”

  “Those grenades were taken from Kantara.”

  “Where that sergeant was?” He whistled. “Pity you couldn’t squeeze something out of him. He’s coming out today, you know.”

  “Is he? The lucky bastard.”

  “He’ll be celebrating tonight. And every night for the next week, I shouldn’t wonder.”

  “He won’t talk now.”

  “No? Couldn’t you frighten him somehow?”

  Owen suddenly had an idea.

  ***

  To the north of the Ezbekiyeh Gardens were the streets of ill repute. The chief of these was the Sharia Wagh el Birket, one side of which was taken up by the apartments of the wealthier courtesans. The apartments rose in tiers over the street, each with its balcony, over which its occupants hung in negligees of virgin white.

  The opposite side of the street was arcaded and in the arches were little cafés where strong liquor was sold. The customers sat at tables on the pavement, smoking and drinking, and looking across at the balconies opposite. From time to time one would make up his mind and cross the street.

  At the far end of the street the cafés gave way to houses. Unlike the ones opposite, they were dark and shuttered. To enter, and many people did, you knocked on a small door and waited to be admitted.

  It was to one of these that the sergeant had gone, already reeling from the liquor he had previously consumed. Georgiades had an informant inside who reported regularly on the sergeant’s progress, which was from drunk to fighting drunk to maudlin to blind drunk and finally to stupor. During the evening, in the intervals between drinking, he had relieved the needs of his flesh with the help of willing assistants, who had even more willingly relieved him of coin, wallet, watch and other valuables.

  “Did you get his belt?” asked Owen.

  Georgiades held up a standard military belt.

  “They did! Good!” said Owen with satisfaction.

  Soldiers often sold their belts for drink. Since belts were military equipment they could then be charged with a different set of offences under military law.

  He took the belt and inspected it almost as a matter of course. It was an offence to file the edges and point of the buckle; the belt made a nasty weapon in a brawl. Officers were required to check belts regularly. Owen looked to see if there was evidence of filing. There was.

  “We’ll keep that,” he said to Georgiades.

  He might be able to use it later.

  Georgiades put the belt on under his trousers.

  “When do you want to go in?” he asked.

  Owen checked his watch. It was not long after two in the morning. The street was still quite busy. The houris were no longer on the balconies but busy inside. However, customers were still coming and going. Small groups of scarlet Tommies twined together staggered down the street singing drunkenly. When they got past the more selective establishments hands would very soon pull them into alleyways. As well, however, there were the usual Cairene clients; too many of them.

  “We’ll wait,” Owen said.

  By three the street was empty. The last Tommies had been swallowed up. The traffic now was out of the houses and not into them. The balconies were empty. The pimps were gone.

  Owen signed with his hand.

  Georgiades went up to the door and knocked upon it. A little shutter opened at eye level. Appar
ently Georgiades satisfied scrutiny, for the door was opened a crack. Someone big was standing inside. Owen saw Georgiades look up at him as he was talking. The door would be on a chain. It was easier to get it right open.

  Owen saw some money change hands.

  There was the sound of the chain being taken off. Georgiades stepped inside. A man fell suddenly against the door. One of the big Sudanis with Owen pulled him outside and hit him with his truncheon. Georgiades was holding the door open with his shoulders. The other Sudanis piled in.

  Owen stepped in after them. A man was lying by the door dazed and holding his head. Two of the Sudanis were grappling with a huge Berberine. As Owen entered he saw the Berberine subside.

  Georgiades had pushed on ahead. They were in a small, dark hall at the end of which was a door. He flung the door open. Beyond it was a large sunken room with couches and divans on which people were lying in various states of undress. There were glasses and bottles on the floor and one or two of the men were smoking from nargilehs.

  A woman sprang up. She was wearing a long purple dress and her face was heavily made up. She called something and two men came out of an inner room holding thick sticks with spikes on them. Georgiades showed them his gun and they stopped. A Sudani hit one of the men across the arm with his truncheon. Then there was a crack and the spiked stick fell to the floor. The man doubled up, holding his arm. The other man ran off. The Sudani followed him.

  Some of the people on the couches started getting up.

  “Stay where you are!” Georgiades commanded.

  He looked round the room. The sergeant wasn’t there.

  “Upstairs!” he said, and nodded to the Sudanis.

  The madam advanced on him, her eyes blazing.

  “What is this?” she said. “Who are you?”

  Georgiades ignored her.

  She caught one of the Sudanis as he went by.

  “Who is this?” she hissed.

  “The Mamur Zapt,” said the man, and went out through the door.

  The woman saw Owen.

  “Vous êtes le Mamur Zapt?”

  “Oui, madame.”

  “Qu’est ce que vous faîtes ici?” she demanded, and launched on a bitter tirade. Owen pushed her away.

  The people on the couches sat frozen. One of the girls began to cry.

  Georgiades came in.

  “He’s upstairs,” he said.

  Owen followed him. There was a small landing at the top of the stairs which gave on to a series of rooms. Georgiades went into one of these.

  There was a large bed with no covers. On it were two women, one black, one white, both naked, and the sergeant, dressed only in a shirt. He was trying to sit up.

  “What the hell’s this?” he said thickly.

  Georgiades looked at Owen. Owen nodded.

  “Get the cuffs on him,” he said.

  A big Sudani yanked the sergeant off the bed in a single movement. The sergeant swore and stood swaying. Georgiades snapped the cuffs on. The sergeant looked at them, bewildered. He had difficulty in focusing his eyes.

  One of the girls gestured at his trousers, which had been flung over a chair.

  “Take too long,” said Georgiades.

  The girl shrugged, curled herself up and lay there watching.

  The Sudanis started hustling the sergeant out. As they got him to the door he suddenly bent over and vomited.

  They had to wait while he leaned against the door post groaning and retching.

  The madam came up the stairs.

  “I will complain,” she said. “You have no right.”

  Her eyes took in the sergeant.

  “Pig!” she said. “Cochon.”

  In one of the rooms off the landing a woman cried out.

  The sergeant brought himself upright. His eyes suddenly focused on Owen.

  “Seen you before,” he muttered.

  One of the Sudanis pulled at him. The sergeant shook him off.

  “Who the hell are you?” he said. “Seen you before.”

  Two Sudanis got a grip on him and began to drag him down the stairs.

  “Mon dieu!” said the madam. “C’est affreux!” She tried to intercept Owen. “I will tell the consul,” she said. “You cannot do this.”

  The sergeant collapsed at the bottom of the stairs, white-faced and groaning.

  “Take him out!” said Georgiades.

  One of the Sudanis caught hold of the sergeant by the collar and tried to haul him upright. The collar tore and the sergeant fell back. Another Sudani picked him up by the armpits and propped him against the stairs. The sergeant looked about him, confused.

  “Seen you before,” he said.

  The Sudanis pulled him towards the door. Half way across the room he was sick again.

  “Cochon! Cochon!” the madam cried.

  A grey-haired man came in through the door. He was wearing a silk dressing-gown and had plainly just got out of bed.

  “I protest!” he said. “These are Syrian citizens!”

  “This one?” asked Georgiades, pointing to the sergeant.

  “That one, too,” said the grey-haired man.

  “He’s a British soldier,” said Georgiades.

  The sergeant lifted his head. “I fucking am,” he said.

  He wrenched himself free from the Sudanis, put his head down and charged at the grey-haired man. Georgiades tripped him up and the Sudanis fell on top of him.

  “Get him out, for Christ’s sake,” said Owen.

  The Sudanis picked themselves up. The sergeant lay motionless on the floor. Another Sudani came across and helped them to carry him out.

  The madam caught the grey-haired man by the sleeve and whispered to him. He came up to Owen.

  “I protest!” he said. “This is a gross infringement of our nation’s rights under the Capitulations.”

  “Who are you?” asked Owen.

  The man drew himself up. “I am a member of the Syrian consular staff.”

  He fumbled in the pocket of his dressing-gown and produced a printed slip.

  “Here is my card,” he said with dignity.

  Owen ignored it.

  “I am the Mamur Zapt,” he said. “I have right of entry into all premises.”

  “Under protest,” said the man. “My country does not accept that interpretation.”

  “Too bad,” said Owen, and turned away.

  The sergeant was out of the house now.

  “I shall complain to the Agent,” said the grey-haired man. “This is Syrian territory and these are Syrian subjects.”

  He had to earn his money. Half the brothels in Cairo, and all the gambling saloons, retained a tame consular official to use in case of emergencies. Under the Capitulations, privileges granted to European powers by successive Ottoman rulers, foreigners were granted immunity from Egyptian law. They could not even be charged unless it could be proved that they had committed an offence not under Egyptian law but in terms of the law of their own native countries. Since nationality was elastic at the best of times in the Levant, it was very hard to convict anyone at all; except, of course, for the poorer Egyptians.

  It was a system which commercially inclined Cairenes knew exactly how to turn to advantage, and which drove Garvin and McPhee to despair.

  “One of them is a British subject,” said Owen, “and he has been robbed.”

  He followed Georgiades out of the house. They had given the Sudanis enough time now to be well on their way.

  Beneath the Mamur Zapt’s office was a whole row of cells, but Owen did not want the sergeant put in one of them. He was taken instead to a public prison in the Hosh Sharkawiyeh. Owen had chosen it because it was a caracol, a traditional native lock-up. It consisted of a single long room. There were no windows, just two narrow slits h
igh up for ventilation. Most air and what light there was came in through the heavy wooden bars of the grille-like door, through which prisoners could look up at the busy street outside. The prison stood at the corner of an old square and had either been deliberately built to be below ground level or else, like some of the other buildings in the square, had been constructed at a time when the level was generally lower.

  There were fifteen prisoners in the cell, not many by Egyptian standards, but crowded enough. Foetid air reached up to Owen as the keeper unbolted the door. Some of the inmates had been confined for the same reason as the sergeant, and, mixed with the stale air, there was a strong smell of excrement and vomit.

  The Sudanis threw the sergeant in and helped the keeper to slide back the heavy bolts.

  “The Army is not going to like this,” said Georgiades.

  “No,” agreed Owen, “it is not.”

  Before they left he gave certain instructions to the keeper. They were to see the sergeant had water, to give him bread, to keep an eye open in case there was trouble between him and the other prisoners, but otherwise on no account to interfere.

  That should be enough, thought Owen.

  ***

  Owen went home and slept late. When he got in to the office the next morning Nikos was already at his desk.

  “There’s someone to see you,” he said. “A friend of yours. He’s been waiting a long time.”

  “Oh,” said Owen. “Where is he?”

  Nikos pointed along the corridor. From McPhee’s room came the sound of voices. McPhee’s. Guzman’s.

  “If that bugger doesn’t get off my back,” said Owen, “I’ll bloody fix him.”

  “The way you did Brooker?” asked Nikos, keeping his eyes firmly on the papers in front of him.

  Owen went into his office. A little later McPhee stuck his head in, looking hot and bothered.

  “Guzman Bey is here,” he said. “He’s got a complaint.”

  “Another?”

  Owen put his pencil down, closed the file he was working on and rose to greet Guzman as McPhee ushered him in.

  “Captain Owen!” Guzman spoke without preamble. “I wish to protest!”

  “Really?” said Owen. “What about?”