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

“Probably not,” Garvin agreed cheerfully.

“Still,” he said, “with your contacts- You must have had something to go on in writing your memo.”

The scepticism had definitely returned.

“Of course,” Owen agreed hastily. “Of course.”

“However,” he went on after a moment, “nothing on this, I’m afraid.”

“It will all fit in,” said Garvin, relaxed. “Never underrate your sources.” It was a favourite maxim of his.

“No,” said Owen.

A suffragi brought in some papers for Garvin to sign. He read them carefully and signed deliberately. Although he had been to Cambridge he always gave the impression that writing came hard to him.

“All I’ve got to go on at the moment,” said Owen, “is that they were taken from Kantara. I’m interested in Kantara for another reason. That’s where the gun came from which was used against Nuri Pasha.”

He told Garvin about the sergeant. Garvin was not very concerned.

“Probably happening all the time,” he said. “They probably all do it.”

“And they all know where to take it to,” said Owen.

“Yes,” Garvin admitted. “There is that.”

“Military Security haven’t done anything about that angle,” said Owen, still hoping.

“Nor have we,” said Garvin. “You’d better start.”

Owen returned unhappily to his room. This did not appear to be working out as he had hoped.

There was a message on his desk to ring one of the Sirdar’s aides.

“Hello, John,” he said.

“Gareth? That you? Thank goodness for that. I’ve got to go out this evening-the Sirdar’s holding a reception-and I wanted to catch you first. It’s about that memo.”

“Yes?” said Owen, warily now.

“What’s going on?”

“I’m trying to shake that bugger, Brooker.”

“Reasonable. He needs shaking. But why bring the whole firmament down as well?”

“Have you got caught up in it?” asked Owen. “Sorry if you have.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” said the other. “I’m not directly involved. The thing is, though, that I’ve been talking to Paul, and he’s reminded me that we’ve got this blasted Carpet thing on next week. I’ve got to be holding the Sirdar's hand at the time and I don’t want to be fending off grenades while I’m doing it.”

“You’ve got the other hand free,” said Owen.

“Thank you. Oh thank you.”

“It’ll be all right,” said Owen. “McPhee’s quite sound.”

“He’s thick as a post. And erratic as well.”

“He’s OK at this sort of thing. Anyway, we’ll double up security all round.”

“The Sirdar thinks something extra is needed.”

“Such as?”

“Don’t know. You’re the one who’s supposed to have ideas on things like that. The Sirdar thinks you’re smart.” “I am, I am.”

“He doesn’t want just a routine operation this time. I must say I’m right with him.”

“I’ll speak to McPhee.”

“You’re the one in charge.”

“No, I’m not. I’m sort of in the background,” Owen explained. “Not this time. Haven’t you heard?”

Owen’s heart began to sink.

“No,” he said. “Tell me.”

“Sorry to be the one to break the news. Thought it would have got through by now.”

“It hasn’t.”

“Well, the Sirdar wanted security augmented. He offered the Army. The Agent said no thanks. Wisely. The Sirdar said this was a special situation. The police couldn’t be expected to cope with terrorism. The Agent thought there was something in that. They decided that what was needed was someone who knew about that sort of thing. You. Congratulations.”

“Christ!” said Owen.

“Help me catch the grenades, then?”

“I’ll throw the bloody grenades,” said Owen.

John roared with laughter.

“At any rate,” he said, “you’ll be spared the assistance of Military Security. Unless you want it. I offer you Brooker.”

“That stupid bastard! It’s all his fault,” said Owen unfairly.

“If he gets in your hair anymore,” John offered, “tell me. I’ll get him posted to Equatoria.”

“Those grenades were taken from Kantara.”

“Where that sergeant was?” He whistled. “Pity you couldn’t squeeze something out of him. He’s coming out today, you know.” “Is he? The lucky bastard.”

“He’ll be celebrating tonight. And every night for the next week, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“He won’t talk now.”

“No? Couldn’t you frighten him somehow?”

Owen suddenly had an idea.

To the north of the Ezbekiyeh Gardens were the streets of ill repute. The chief of these was the Sharia Wagh el Birket, one side of which was taken up by the apartments of the wealthier courtesans. The apartments rose in tiers over the street, each with its balcony, over which its occupants hung in negligees of virgin white.

The opposite side of the street was arcaded and in the arches were little cafes where strong liquor was sold. The customers sat at tables on the pavement, smoking and drinking, and looking across at the balconies opposite. From time to time one would make up his mind and cross the street.

At the far end of the street the cafes gave way to houses. Unlike the ones opposite, they were dark and shuttered. To enter, and many people did, you knocked on a small door and waited to be admitted.

It was to one of these that the sergeant had gone, already reeling from the liquor he had previously consumed. Georgiades had an informant inside who reported regularly on the sergeant’s progress, which was from drunk to fighting drunk to maudlin to blind drunk and finally to stupor. During the evening, in the intervals between drinking, he had relieved the needs of his flesh with the help of willing assistants, who had even more willingly relieved him of coin, wallet, watch and other valuables.

“Did you get his belt?” asked Owen.

Georgiades held up a standard military belt.

“They did! Good!” said Owen with satisfaction.

Soldiers often sold their belts for drink. Since belts were military equipment they could then be charged with a different set of offences under military law.

He took the belt and inspected it almost as a matter of course. It was an offence to file the edges and point of the buckle; the belt made a nasty weapon in a brawl. Officers were required to check belts regularly. Owen looked to see if there was evidence of filing. There was.

“We’ll keep that,” he said to Georgiades.

He might be able to use it later.

Georgiades put the belt on under his trousers.

“When do you want to go in?” he asked.

Owen checked his watch. It was not long after two in the morning. The street was still quite busy. The houris were no longer on the balconies but busy inside. However, customers were still coming and going. Small groups of scarlet Tommies twined together staggered down the street singing drunkenly. When they got past the more selective establishments hands would very soon pull them into alleyways. As well, however, there were the usual Cairene clients; too many of them.

“We’ll wait,” Owen said.

By three the street was empty. The last Tommies had been swallowed up. The traffic now was out of the houses and not into them. The balconies were empty. The pimps were gone.

Owen signed with his hand.

Georgiades went up to the door and knocked upon it. A little shutter opened at eye level. Apparently Georgiades satisfied scrutiny, for the door was opened a crack. Someone big was standing inside. Owen saw Georgiades look up at him as he was talking. The door would be on a chain. It was easier to get it right open.

Owen saw some money change hands.

There was the sound of the chain being taken off. Georgiades stepped inside. A man fell suddenly against the door. One of the big Sudanis with Owen pulled him outside and hit him with his truncheon. Georgiades was holding the door open with his shoulders. The other Sudanis piled in.