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

“I do this time,” said the major. He thought for a moment and then smiled. “Yes,” he said, “that’s right. For something like this I’d need special authorization. In writing.”

“That would be too late. The man’s coming out on Thursday.” “Pity!”

Owen considered going over the major’s head, directly to the commander-in-chief. He knew one of the Sirdar’s aides-de-camp.

The major must have seen him look at the telephone, for he said: “I’d need it in writing. From the Sirdar. Personally.”

It would take too long. Even if he got through to John, John would need time to clear it.

The major was watching him. “OK?” he said.

“Not OK,” said Owen.

“Dear, dear!”

“There’s a certain amount of rush on.”

“Difficult.”

“Could be,” said Owen. “For you.”

“Why me?” The major raised eyebrows.

“If things go wrong.”

“Why should they?”

Owen carried on as if he hadn’t heard.

“Especially if it came out why they went wrong.”

“I’ll risk that.”

All the same the major must have felt a little uneasy, for he said: “You won’t get anything out of him. Not if he’s coming out on Thursday.”

“I’ll risk that,” said Owen. “It’s just that I’d like el Zaki to listen in.”

“Didn’t you hear?” asked the major. “In writing. From the Sirdar. Personally.”

Owen sighed.

“Anything else I can do for you?” asked the major.

"No,” said Owen. “Not yet.”

He turned to go, then stopped.

“Oh, just one thing-”

“Yes?”

“Major…?”

“Brooker,” said the major. “Major Brooker.”

“Thank you,” said Owen. “That was it.”

“It wasn’t my fault, sir,” the ex-sergeant said. “I trusted those bloody Gyppies. That bloody ’Assan. He’d got it all figured out. He had his mates outside. ’Course, I was wrong to trust him. That was my mistake.”

Ingenuous blue eyes met Owen’s. Owen, who did not believe a word of it, decided to play along.

“Tell me about this Hassan,” he said.

“Bloody orderly, sir. Used to run messages. ’Ere, there and everywhere. Kept his eyes open. Didn’t miss much.”

“You think he tipped somebody off?”

“Or let them in, sir. There was a skylight found open. You know, I’d been looking at that bloody skylight a couple of days before. There was only a simple catch on it and I thought to myself: Anyone could open that. But I didn’t bother much because it was so small. I thought: Nobody can get in there. But do you know what I think, sir? The way it was done?”

He leaned forward confidentially.

“They slipped in one of those walads. A boy. Probably stripped him naked and greased him all over. Seen it done. At Ismailia. Bloody gang of kids. Went all through the mess. Watches, cash, even your bloody handkerchief. The little bastards. But they got too cocky and the guards caught one of them. Brought the little bugger to me. I caught hold of him and was going to teach him a thing or two but he slipped through my hands. That’s how I knew he was greased. Didn’t do him much good. The guard caught him with the rifle butt.”

“And you think that’s what may have happened here?”

“Can’t swear to it, sir. But the skylight was open the morning after, and it was only big enough for a kid.”

“Could be,” Owen agreed.

“ ’Course, it was my fault, sir,” said the man. “I admit that. I should have kept my eyes open. I made a mistake. But I’ve paid for it.”

The weathered, experienced face, which retained a sunburn despite nearly a year’s confinement, assumed a virtuous expression.

An old hand at the game, thought Owen. Twenty-five years in the Army, fifteen of them in India. There was not much he didn’t know. Three times reduced, each time made up again. Crafty, plausible, he would know how to make himself useful. How willing would he be to be useful now?

“Pity to get into trouble just because of a Gyppy,” he said aloud. “I know, sir,” said the ex-sergeant, as if ruefully. “I could have kicked myself.”

“It’s easy done,” said Owen.

“My mistake was to trust the bleeders. I treated them decent. That ’Assan was a useful bloke. Smart. He did me a favour or two, and I did him a few. Used to give him fags. And not say nothing if I caught him smoking in the armoury.” He grimaced. “Should have. That was my mistake.”

“In the armoury?”

“I know, sir. I dare say that’s what gave him the idea.”

Thin trickles of sweat ran down on either side of the man’s nose.

There was no fan in the room and it was very hot. The one window, high up in the wall, was shuttered. The door was closed.

“Did he ever talk?”

“ ’Assan? He went missing that night.”

Very convenient, thought Owen. And part of it might even be true. They might well have used the skylight, might even have slipped a boy in, as the man had said. Only, of course, he knew more about it than he had let on. How much did he know? Not much, if it was just a matter of money passing and agreement to turn a blind eye. Hassan could even have been the go-between. In which case the ex-sergeant would not know anyone else.

Owen looked through the file in front of him. One of the times the ex-sergeant had been reduced was for selling Army equipment. Not weaponry-the Army took that seriously. Odds and ends from the stores. At least, that was all they had caught him for. The chances were that he had flogged quite a lot more. And once a seller… The idea might have come to him again. He had been running a woman in Ismailia and had needed the cash. He might have approached somebody. There was always a ready market for weapons. He might have known someone. Worth a try.

Owen studied the face opposite him. Shrewd, Army-wise, hard. A drinker’s face. Little red veins beneath the tan, tell-tale puffiness below the eyes. In certain circumstances, thought Owen, I could crack this man.

But not easily. Not here, and probably not now. He was sitting there at ease. He knew he was coming out on Thursday. All he had to do was to sit tight and say nothing. There was no way of putting him under pressure.

Outside in the corridor he heard the guards’ feet shuffling. It would take too long to break the man, and before then he would have been interrupted.

He had to find a way of getting the man to cooperate. He might be willing if he thought there was something in it for him.

“You’ve been reduced before,” said Owen. “Three times.”

“Yes, sir,” said the man equably.

“Gets harder.”

The man gave a little shrug.

Used to it, thought Owen.

“How much longer have you got?” he asked.

The man looked slightly surprised.

“To serve, sir? Four years.” “Time enough to get made up again,” said Owen. “It would be nice to go out with a bit of money in your pocket.”

The man looked at him cautiously, but his interest was aroused. “Help me,” said Owen, “and I might help you.”

He waited.

After a moment, the man responded.

“Exactly how could I help you, sir?”

“A name. All I want is a name.”

The man rubbed his chin. There was a faint rasp. In the heat it was never possible to shave closely.

“ ’Assan is the only name I can think of, sir.”

“Sure?”

The blue eyes met his blandly.

“Yes, sir. Afraid so, sir.”

“I’m not really interested in your case,” said Owen. “I’m interested in another. And if I got a name, that could be really helpful.”

“I’d like to help, sir,” said the man. “But ’Assan is the only name I can think of.”

“Go on thinking,” said Owen, “and let me know if another name comes into your head.”