Michael Pearce - The Mamur Zapt and the return of the Carpet

“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.”

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.”