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

He stole a glance at Mahmoud. His face was stiff and unyielding. This was an issue of principle for him and he was not going to give way.

Owen could see the bridge ahead of them. That was where the promenade came to an end, and unless something happened that was where the walk would come to an end.

Owen knew that he was the one who would have to do something. The trouble was that he couldn’t think what.

Just before they got to the bridge he stopped and turned, forcing Mahmoud to look at him.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said.

“Yes?” Mahmoud was wary but not completely distant.

“I’ve been trying to think of a way forward,” Owen said, “one acceptable to both of us.”

Mahmoud was interested, and because he was interested his face lost some of its woodenness.

“Let me try this on you: my people make a list and your people make a list. You check everyone whether they are on my list or on your list. If they’re on your list and not on mine you don’t have to tell me-unless you want to.”

Mahmoud’s face cleared at once.

“I would be happy with that,” he said. “I would be very happy with that.”

“Of course,” said Mahmoud, “it may not be political anyway.”

They were sitting in a cafe, one of the few Arab ones in this European part of the city.

“What else could it be?”

“Well, let me try something on you,” Mahmoud said. “Someone besides Mustafa has got a personal grudge. Perhaps even for the same reason-Nuri can’t leave women alone.”

“And set Mustafa up?”

“Yes. That way they would get their revenge and not get caught. If it worked.”

“No real evidence,” said Owen.

“No real evidence for it being political,” Mahmoud pointed out. “Yes, but-”

“You’ve got a feel?” Mahmoud laughed. "So have I. I’m just being a good boy and checking out all the possibilities. Like they taught me in college.”

Owen laughed, too, more comfortable now.

“There you are!” he said. “That’s where you have the advantage!” Mahmoud looked at him curiously.

“You didn’t go to college? They didn’t train you?”

“Not for this,” said Owen.

“The English prefer amateurs,” said Mahmoud.

He meant it consolingly, Owen knew, but the remark jarred. That was how many Egyptians saw it, he knew. Most of them, if they were in the professions, had received a formal training, either in Cairo or in France.

Mahmoud, quite at ease now, took a sip of coffee and then sat thinking.

“There’s no real evidence for either,” he said, going back to his original line of thought. “Like you, I incline to the political. But there’s one thing that bothers me. If it's political. Ordinary politicians are not going to be involved. It’s got to be extremists. But if it’s them there’s something funny about it. Why are they using Mustafa?”

“If it’s a ‘club’ they’ll have people of their own, you mean.”

“Yes. People who know what they’re doing.” “Not all the ‘clubs’ are as professional as you imagine,” Owen pointed out. He was something of an expert on such matters. “The ones based in the universities, for instance. That,” he said, “is why they usually don’t last very long.”

He wondered immediately whether this would upset Mahmoud again and looked at him a trifle anxiously.

Mahmoud caught the look and burst out laughing.

“We’re going to have a job, aren’t we?” he said. “Almost any ground is dangerous! However-” he leaned forward and gently touched Owen on the sleeve in a gesture that was very Arab-“I’m not always so unreasonable!”

He thought again.

“It’s the gun,” he said. “That’s what makes me think it must be a ‘club.’ And one of the more professional ones. Ordinary fellahin like Mustafa don’t get near such things. If they bought a gun-if they could afford to-it would be of the pigeon-shooting sort. A shotgun for scaring the birds. A rifle that came with Napoleon. Not the latest issue to the British Army.”

“Could you buy one? If you had plenty of money? If you were that other-man-with-a-grudge, for instance?”

Mahmoud shook his head. “Not unless you knew somebody.” “You can’t rule that out as a possibility.”

“You can for Mustafa. He’s never been out of the village.” Mahmoud brooded a little.

“And that’s the problem,” he said presently. “You see, if you can get hold of a gun like that and you want someone killed, why go to Mustafa? There’s a gap. Between the professionals behind the scenes and the very far from professional man who’s supposed to do the actual work.”

Two shoe-shine boys came round the corner and launched themselves immediately at their feet. They both tucked their feet under their chairs and Mahmoud waved the boys away.

“And there’s another thing,” he said. “The hashish.”

“They gave him too much.”

“Yes.”

Mahmoud looked at Owen.

“You know what I think?”

“Tell me.”

“It all sounds terribly amateur.”

“Yes,” said Owen. “Like me.”

Although Owen had told Mahmoud about the article in al Liwa he had kept back one piece of information. Now, as they walked back towards the centre of the city, he said:

“I know someone who was at the meeting, in the village. This person hates Nuri, is a Nationalist, is, I would say, a bit incompetent and from what I have heard would be quite likely to sympathize with Mustafa.”

“You should join the Parquet,” said Mahmoud, surprised. “Who is he?”

“The person who wrote the article in al Liwa. ”

“Whose identity you have already checked.”

“Yes,” said Owen. “Ahmed.”

One of the Mamur Zapt’s privileges was a box at the Opera. At first Owen had been a little surprised. But no, it was not an imaginative bribe. It was a perfectly genuine prerequisite of office and Owen soon began to make regular use of it. Although he came from a musical family and a Welsh village with a deep-rooted musical culture, he had never been to the opera before he came to Egypt. Soon after taking up his position, however, he went to a performance of Aida, which had been written, of course, specially for the Opera House at Cairo, and was hooked. He went to every new performance during the season. Indeed, he went several times and had recently made a resolution to cut down his attendances at the Opera House to twice a week.

Coming back from the Opera House that evening he passed an Arab cafe in which some young men were sitting. They were in high spirits and had probably been drinking. As Owen approached, one of them said something to the others and there was a burst of derisive laughter, almost certainly at Owen’s expense. Then, as he continued past, one of the others, in an obvious attempt to outdo, leaned out into the street and shouted something abusive almost directly up into Owen’s face, cursing, as is the Arab custom, not Owen himself but his father.

Without stopping and, indeed, without thinking, Owen at once replied that he would certainly have returned the compliment had his addresser only been in the position to inform him which of his mother’s two-and-ninety admirers his father had been.

There was an instant of shocked silence behind him and then, almost immediately, the rush of feet.

Owen cursed his over-ready tongue. One thing the Agent would not tolerate was brawling in the street with Egyptians.

The footsteps came up to him and he braced himself.

And then a hand was placed gently on his arm and a voice said politely: “Please, please. I am so sorry. I did not think for one moment that you knew Arabic, still less the correct Arabic abuse. We are all very sorry. Please come and join us for some coffee and let us try and convince you that we are not as boorish as we appear.”