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

“Mustafa tried to kill him.”

“It went wrong,” said Georgiades.

“Why did it go wrong?” asked Nikos.

“Because they used that moron Ahmed as a go-between. He set it up wrongly.”

“Ahmed would try to extort money from his own father?” asked Owen.

Georgiades spread his hands again, palms up, open as the Cairo day. “Why not?” he said. “Better than trying to kill him.”

Owen frowned. “It makes sense,” he said. “Some sense. Neither you nor Zeinab thought he was of the stuff that killers are made of.” “Who is this Zeinab?” asked Nikos.

“A girl,” Georgiades told him. “He’s been doing some research of his own.”

“He’s been writing some memos of his own, too,” said Nikos, still unforgiving.

“But there remains the difficulty,” said Owen, disregarding them, “that the societies, or most of them, are professional and Ahmed is a bungling amateur. Why does a professional use an amateur?” “Because he’s Nuri’s son?” offered Nikos.

“I still don’t see-”

“It adds to the pleasure,” said Nikos. “Their pleasure. To use the son against the father,” he explained patiently.

“Now you’ve shocked him, ” said Georgiades to Nikos. “Anyway, I can think of another explanation.”

“What’s that?”

“They wanted to give him something to do. Always hanging around. Get him out of their hair.”

“I prefer that explanation,” Owen said to Nikos.

Nikos smiled, worldly-wise.

“We’re still left with the old question, though,” said Owen. “Who’s ‘they’?”

“We know the answer now, don’t we?” asked Georgiades.

“Do we?”

“The ones Nuri and Ahmed went to see at al Liwa. ”

But that was strange. For the person Nuri and Ahmed had talked to at al Liwa, they later learned from their agent, was Abdul Murr.

Much to Owen’s surprise, for he had neither expected nor intended the memo to have such an effect, there were three other responses besides Guzman’s to the memo that day.

The next came at lunch-time. Owen had gone as usual to the club and as he was going in to the dining-room someone hailed him through the open door of the bar.

It was one of the Consul-General’s bright young men, a personal friend.

“Hello, Gareth,” he said. “Can I catch you for a minute?”

He led Owen out on to the verandah and they sat down at a table where they were unlikely to be disturbed.

“It’s about that memo of yours,” he said, “the one about lapses in military security.”

“Look, Paul-” Owen began hastily.

“The Old Man’s concerned. He had the SPG in first thing this morning. Told him a thing or two. And not before time, I must say! The Army behaves as if it’s on a bloody island of its own. Has its own procedures, won’t talk to anyone else, won’t even listen to anyone else. Thinks it knows it all and in reality knows bloody nothing! The Egyptians mightn’t be here at all as far as it’s concerned. And much the same goes for the Civil Branch. We might as well not exist. The Army goes clumping in with its bloody great big boots. Half our time is spent trying to make up for the damage it’s already bloody caused and the other half trying to anticipate what it’s going to cock up next. Liaison-you talk about liaison in your mem-Jesus! they can’t even spell the word!”

“Some of them particularly,” said Owen, pleased.

“You’re dead right! Military Security in particular. Mind you, you get all the dummos in that. A fine pig’s ear they’ve been making of things! Supplying arms and ammunition to half the bloody population. And making a few bob out of it on the side, I’ll bet. Those bloody Army storesmen are about as straight as a corkscrew-an implement with which they are all too familiar.”

“Now, now, Paul,” said Owen. “They drink beer.”

“You’re bloody right they do! No wonder the place is a desert. Anything liquid they bloody consume.”

“The trouble is,” said Owen, “the Sirdar will never do anything.”

“Oh yes he will. This time. The Agent was on to him directly. He’s at risk, too. Great minds think alike for once.”

“You reckon the memo might have some effect?”

“It already has. Sirdar’s already kicked some people up the ass.” “He has?” said Owen happily.

“He certainly has.”

Paul leaned forward and spoke a trifle more quietly but just as vehemently.

“And with bloody good reason,” he said. “Because do you know what came out? The Old Man demanded to know if anything had been stolen recently. The SPG had to tell him. And-can you believe it? It turned out that a box of grenades had vanished from Kantara barracks only last Tuesday! Grenades! A box! Jesus!”

“Kantara?” said Owen. “That’s interesting.”

“Is it? Well, perhaps it is to you. I must say, Gareth, they’re pretty impressed with you. Timely prescience, the Agent called it. Even the Sirdar thought it was damn good intelligence work.”

“Well, there you are,” said Owen modestly.

“But what interests me, ” said Paul, “was that it was a whole bloody box. Could cause absolute havoc if they start chucking a few of those around. And it’s just when we’ve got all the festivals coming up! We’ve got the Carpet next week and the place will be stiff with notables all hanging around for someone to take a pot shot at. Even the Khedive has been persuaded to come to receive the plaudits of his loyal and appreciative subjects. And I’m organizing our side! Christ!” “The Agent?”

“And the Sirdar!”

“McPhee’s very good,” said Owen.

“He’ll have to be,” said Paul gloomily, “if the Army is issuing arms to the whole population of Egypt.”

“Is this real?” asked Garvin.

He had an unfortunate way of going to the heart of things.

“I am afraid it is, sir,” said Owen, straightforward and thanking his lucky stars for the conversation at lunch-time. “A box of grenades went missing from Kantara only this week.”

“I know,” said Garvin. “The Sirdar told me.” He still looked sceptical. “I must say I was a little surprised at your memo. I hadn’t noticed any build-up. Still, I dare say you rely on information which does not come through in the ordinary way.”

He looked down at the papers in front of him. Garvin’s distaste for paper-pushing was well known.

“That’s right, sir,” said Owen immediately. He felt he was sounding too much like McPhee. “And a lot of it of very dubious quality. But when it all points in one direction-”

“And this did?”

“Enough to risk a judgement,” said Owen.

Surprisingly, Garvin seemed satisfied.

“Well,” he said, “it seems to have been a good judgement. Both the Agent and the Sirdar are pleased with you. And that doesn’t happen often.”

One of the reasons for that, Owen felt like saying, was that neither of them was particularly anxious to hear about the Mamur Zapt’s activities; and Garvin usually thought it politic not to enlighten them.

"The only trouble is,” said Garvin, “that now they’ll expect you to do something.”

"I’ve outlined several things in my memo-” Owen began.

Garvin brushed this aside.

“About the grenades,” he said.

The conversation was beginning to take an unprofitable direction.

“Isn’t that rather Military Security’s pigeon?” Owen asked.

“Not any longer. The grenades are out of the camp, aren’t they?”

Owen was forced to admit that this was so.

“They’ll have to give me some information,” he said.

“They will. This time.”

“We’d never even have heard about the grenades if it had not been for my memo,” he said, still hoping to deflect Garvin back to safer paths.