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

“We want to know where al Liwa gets its money from.”

“Why ask me?”

“We thought Raoul might know.”

“Then ask him,” she said, and walked off.

A tall, distinguished-looking Syrian with silvery-grey hair came over.

“What’s the matter?” he said.

“We thought you could help us,” they said. “We want to know where al Liwa gets its money from.”

The Syrian looked annoyed. “Why should I know?”

“You’re so friendly with al Liwa. ”

“I’m friendly with everybody,” the Syrian said.

“I wish you were friendly with Fakhri,” one of the young men said. “Then I could have a bigger column.”

“There’s no money in newspapers,” the Syrian said.

“Except what people put into them,” one of the young men said. The Syrian looked at him steadily. “I don’t put money into papers,” he said. “I stick to business.”

He rejoined the people he had been talking to previously. A little later, Owen saw him leaving, with the girl.

Understandably, Owen got into the office late the next day. Nikos and Georgiades were waiting for him.

Nikos cocked an eyebrow.

“How are you feeling?” asked Georgiades.

“Fragile,” said Owen.

“Serve you right,” said Nikos vindictively. He had not forgiven Owen the business about the memo.

Georgiades clucked his tongue disapprovingly at Nikos and led Owen into his office.

“Coffee!” he shouted to Yussuf. “Coffee quickly! The man is dying!”

Yussuf scuttled into the room and poured out a large mug of coffee. He watched sympathetically as Owen did his best to wrap himself round it: cradling it in his hands and letting the warmth move up his arms, sucking in the aroma and then taking a sip and letting it transform itself into a glow in the pit of his stomach.

Georgiades took some, too; in case it was catching, he informed Yussuf.

Owen had not really drunk much the night before. One seldom did at Egyptian parties, even Europeanized ones. However, he had not left Fakhri’s until it had gone four and had had only three hours’ sleep.

He put the mug back on his desk and motioned to Georgiades to draw up his usual chair.

“OK,” he said. “Tell me about Ahmed, then.”

“Nineteen,” said Georgiades, “a student. Second year at the law school. Not very good at his studies. A certain native wit, his teachers think, but inconsistent. Not very well organized. His work doesn’t get done. Too many distractions.”

“Like?”

“Politics. Spends too much time hanging around Nationalist headquarters. Attends meetings. Distributes leaflets.” “Speaks?”

“No. Gets tied up. His emotion outruns his thinking.”

“Heart’s in the right place but head isn’t.”

“That’s the sort of thing.”

“And how did he come to fall into these bad habits?”

“Before he went to law school his father sent him to Turkey for six months. The idea was for him to make contacts which might be useful to him later. Business, a bit, but mostly the kind of contacts that would help him with the Khedive. Nuri’s good at that kind of lobbying. Anyway, apparently Ahmed didn’t spend much time talking to the kind of people Nuri wanted him to talk to. Instead, he fell in with a group of Young Turks-officers in the Army, stationed at Stamboul. He got to talking politics with them. They were very keen on getting some change in things. Too keen. They got put down by the Secret Police and Ahmed had to leave the country in a hurry. Nuri wasn’t very pleased.”

“And then he came home to Egypt and thought he’d carry on where they left off?”

“That’s the general idea.”

“Young Turk, is he?”

“Not really. More Young Egyptian.”

“Never met that.”

“Treasure it,” Georgiades invited. “You might not meet it again. He’s on his own, this boy.”

“What’s his position? Who’s he against, for a start?”

“The British.”

“I’d spotted that.”

“The Khedive. The Government. The University. His father. The owner of the cafe. He’s anti most things.”

“Pro anything?”

“Pro the big ideals,” said Georgiades. “Like, me. Including Pan-Islam. Unlike me.”

“Religious, then?”

Georgiades shook his head.

“Come on!” said Owen. “He’s got to be if he’s Pan-Islam!”

“The boy’s confused.”

“How can you be secular and Pan-Islam?”

“I told you, the boy’s position is unique.”

“What the hell!”

“He has a vision,” said Georgiades, “of a worldwide brotherhood of Arab Nationalists. Big, like I said. Only misty.” “Anyone else share this vision?”

“Only me,” said Georgiades. “He couldn’t persuade the others in the cafe.”

Big, sympathetic brown eyes met Owen’s. Georgiades was a marvellous listener. People would tell him anything: their troubles, their hopes, their dreams, their worries; the difficulties they had at work, the problems they had with wife, husband, parents, children. Out it would all come pouring. It was one of the things that made him such a good agent.

“Adopting for the moment a more limited perspective,” said Owen, “who does he tie up with? Not el Gazzari, evidently. Jemal?”

“Not Jemal either. He’s quarrelled with Jemal. He did offer Jemal his services but Jemal made some unflattering remark. About rich landlords’ sons, I believe.”

“His father is a rich landlord,” said Owen. “Is he a rich son?”

“I don’t think he has much money,” said Georgiades. “Nuri keeps him on a tight rein. He doesn’t trust him.”

“I’ll bet that helps their relationship.”

Owen thought for a moment.

“All the same,” he said, “Nuri keeps him on as his secretary.”

“In a funny way,” said Georgiades, “I think he loves him. Anyway,” he added, “the secretarying is pretty nominal.”

The room was dark and cool. Heavy slatted wooden shutters kept light and heat out. They were opened only in the evening when the air had become cooler.

“Nuri loves him,” Owen said. "Does he love Nuri, though?” “Not according to Nuri.”

"But according to Ahmed?”

“Well,” said Georgiades, “the boy is misunderstood.”

“Really he loves his father?”

"Sure,” said Georgiades, “and hates him.”

He eased himself back on his chair to free his trousers, which were sticking to the seat.

"But not enough to kill him,” he said, “if that’s what you were thinking. He’s not the sort.”

“That’s what his sister said. Half-sister.”

“ You been doing research into the family, too? Well, that’s right. He hasn’t got the steel.”

"The job was bungled,” said Owen.

“That raises the question,” said Georgiades, “of what the job was.” Their eyes met.

“True,” said Owen. “Interesting.”

Nikos stuck his head into the room.

“Have you shown it him yet?”

“What?”

Georgiades took a scrumpled piece of paper out of his pocket and put it on the desk in front of Owen. It was a handbill such as are given out at political meetings. It was in Arabic and the heading, printed bold at both the top and the bottom of the page, was Death TO THE Sirdar.

“He was giving these out to students at the law school yesterday,” said Georgiades. “He had a couple of hundred of them.”

“Did you take them off him?”

“Just the one. Do you want me to anything about the others?” “Too late now,” said Nikos. “You should have taken them all while you were at it.”

“But that would have given me away,” protested Georgiades. “He thinks I’m a supporter. The only one.”