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 etes le Mamur Zapt?”
“Oui, madame. ”
“Qu ’ est ce que vous faites 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 high 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?”
“Your high-handed action last night. The Khedive has received a formal complaint from the Syrian ambassador.”
“On what grounds?”
“That you forcibly and illegally entered premises belonging to a Syrian citizen-”
“A brothel.”
“-and abducted a guest present on the premises.”
“A customer. A British subject.”
“A British soldier. Characteristically engaged.”
“But British. And therefore no concern of the ambassador’s.”
Nor of the Khedive’s, he nearly added.
“Syrian rights have been infringed. That is the concern of the ambassador.”
Owen reflected. He could simply tell Guzman to go and jump in the Nile. Or he could be more politic. In Cairo it was nearly always best to be more politic. He adopted a reasonable tone..
“At the time of entry the premises were not known to be foreign,” he said. “They were known only to be a particularly vicious brothel. I must say, I find it a little surprising that the ambassador should be defending the rights of someone engaged in conducting such a place!” “Perhaps,” said Guzman drily, “he was unaware of the use to which the premises were put.”
Owen was not sure that the words were meant ironically. Guzman spoke as flatly as he usually did; but was there a glint of humour? If so, it did not survive long.
“The fact remains,” said Guzman, “that Syrian rights have been infringed and the Khedive embarrassed.”
Owen decided to be politic still.
“If the Khedive has been embarrassed,” he said smoothly, “it was, of course, inadvertently on our part. I hope you will convey my personal apologies.”
Guzman was taken aback by this; indeed he appeared slightly put out. He hesitated, as if uncertain about prolonging the interview, and then said, almost tentatively: “The soldier-?”
“Will be dealt with by the Army,” said Owen heartily.
He edged towards the door. Guzman, however, ignored the hint. “But will he?” he asked suddenly.
“Will he — ”
“Be dealt with by the Army?”
“Of course.”
“Will it,” said Guzman meaningfully, “get the chance?”
Owen was caught slightly off balance.
“I don’t quite follow you.”
“I understand,” said Guzman, “that the man is still in your custody.”
“Ah yes,” said Owen, recovering, “but that is only temporarily.” “How temporary?”
“Very temporary,” said Owen firmly. He was not going to be steam-rollered by Guzman.
“May I ask why you are holding him?”
“I just want to ask him a few questions.”
“About-?” “Oh, military matters,” he said vaguely, edging further towards the door.
“Military matters?” Guzman looked puzzled. “But surely that is the concern of the Army?”
Owen realized that he had been cornered again.
“Some are my concern,” he said off-handedly.
“Ah! Security!”
Owen smiled politely, and uninformatively. He took up a stance by the door. Guzman did not appear to notice. He seemed sunk in thought.
“This man you are holding-”
“Yes?”
“What precisely-?”
“I am afraid I am not at liberty to tell you that.”
Guzman was still thinking.
“Was he at the Kantara barracks?” he asked.
Owen continued to smile politely but did not reply.
Guzman thought again. Then he made up his mind.
“I would like to see him,” he said abruptly.
“That,” said Owen, “would not be possible.”
After Guzman had gone, Nikos came back into the room.
“That was odd,” he said. “Why is he so interested?”
“In the sergeant, you mean? Don’t know. For the same reason as us, perhaps.”
“Perhaps,” said Nikos, and went away again still looking thoughtful.
Owen opened his file and worked steadily till lunch. Then he went to the club. In the cloakroom he ran into his friend John, the Sirdar’s aide.
“I don’t want to be seen with you!” his friend said, pretending flight.
“Why not?”
“You’re always doing horrid things to the Army.”
“What am I doing now?”
“Kidnapping its soldiers. Or so I am informed.”
Owen was surprised.
“Christ! That’s quick!” he said. “Who informed you?”
“Someone from the Khediviate.”
“Really?” A nasty suspicion dawned in Owen’s mind. “You don’t, by chance, happen to know his name?”
"He was unwilling to give it but I extracted it. Guzman.” "Guzman! The bastard!”
"You do seem to be having trouble with your acquaintances,” said John.
“When did you get the message?”
“About an hour ago.”
“He must have rung as soon as he got out of my office. The bastard!”
“I take it,” said John, drying his hands, “that the poor kidnapped soldier is a certain ex-sergeant from Kantara?”
“You take it rightly.”
“In that case,” said John, "I wish to know no more. What I can tell you in confidence is that unfortunately I was unable to pass the message on before lunch as I was so busy. Naturally I shall inform my superiors as soon as possible. However, it may be that I shall be detained at lunch by someone who insists on buying me a drink and so I shall miss the afternoon mail with my memo. In which case it would only reach them tomorrow morning.”
“You’re a pal,” said Owen.
“Would it help?”
“It would. It really would.”
“Mind! Till tomorrow only!”
“That should be long enough.”
“In any case,” said John, “it would be bad for the Sirdar’s digestion if he was told that sort of thing just after lunch.”
“We wouldn’t want that to happen. But now, about your own digestion-?”
“A drink would go down very nicely. Yes, please.”
Owen called in at the office after his swim. Nikos was still there. “I don’t understand it,” he said when Owen told him about Guzman’s message. “Why would he do a thing like that?”
“Because he’s a nasty bastard, that’s why!” said Owen with feeling. Nikos shook his head. “That wouldn’t be the only reason.�
�
“What other reason could there be?”
“I don’t know,” said Nikos.
Owen left him thinking and went on into his own room. Nikos hated things to be untidy, unexplained. He would worry at this like a terrier with a bone.
Some time later he came into Owen’s room.
“Maybe he’s afraid,” he said.
“Afraid? What of?”
“You. Talking to the sergeant. He thinks you might find out something.”
“But why tip off the Army?”
“So that you get less time to talk.”
He collected the papers from Owen’s out-tray and went back into the main office. When Owen looked in half an hour later he had gone home.
Owen himself worked on till well after midnight. Then he called for the sergeant. The sergeant had been in the caracol for over twenty-four hours now; and this time he gave Owen the name he wanted.
CHAPTER 8
“I think we ought to go in,” said McPhee.
“There’s no real evidence,” Garvin objected. “Nothing to link him with the grenades.”
“There’s plenty to link him with other stuff.”
“Plenty?”
“That sergeant said it was a recognized route. They’ve been using that chap for years.”
“If what the sergeant says is true,” said Garvin, “and we know him to be a liar.”
“He wasn’t lying this time,” said Owen.
“It’s the lead we wanted,” said McPhee. “What are we waiting for?”
“We’re waiting for something real,” said Garvin.
“Isn’t the box something real?”
“There are boxes going in and out of that place all the time.”
“Ali says he knows those and it wasn’t one of them,” said Owen. “How can he know all the boxes? What about a new supplier?” “He was sure.”
“Might be anything,” said Garvin dismissively. “A new hat for his wife, goods for the shop. We can’t go in just on the word of a street beggar.”
“And of a sergeant,” said McPhee.
“A convicted criminal. Lying to save his skin.”
“Not to save his skin,” Owen pointed out.
“All right, then,” said Garvin. “Lying because he’s been terrified out of his wits. And that’s something else I want to speak to you about.”
The Mamur Zapt and the return of the Carpet mz-1 Page 12