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

“The Army is not going to like this,” said Georgiades.

“No,” agreed Owen, “it is not.”

Before they left he gave certain instructions to the keeper. They were to see the sergeant had water, to give him bread, to keep an eye open in case there was trouble between him and the other prisoners, but otherwise on no account to interfere.

That should be enough, thought Owen.

Owen went home and slept late. When he got in to the office the next morning Nikos was already at his desk.

“There’s someone to see you,” he said. “A friend of yours. He's been waiting a long time.”

“Oh,” said Owen. “Where is he?”

Nikos pointed along the corridor. From McPhee’s room came the sound of voices. McPhee’s. Guzman’s.

“If that bugger doesn’t get off my back,” said Owen, “I’ll bloody fix him.”

“The way you did Brooker?” asked Nikos, keeping his eyes firmly on the papers in front of him.

Owen went into his office. A little later McPhee stuck his head in, looking hot and bothered.

“Guzman Bey is here,” he said. “He’s got a complaint.” “Another?”

Owen put his pencil down, closed the file he was working on and rose to greet Guzman as McPhee ushered him in.

“Captain Owen!” Guzman spoke without preamble. “I wish to protest!”

“Really?” said Owen. “What about?”

“Your high-handed action last night. The Khedive has received a formal complaint from the Syrian ambassador.”

“On what grounds?”

“That you forcibly and illegally entered premises belonging to a Syrian citizen-”

“A brothel.”

“-and abducted a guest present on the premises.”

“A customer. A British subject.”

“A British soldier. Characteristically engaged.”

“But British. And therefore no concern of the ambassador’s.”

Nor of the Khedive’s, he nearly added.

“Syrian rights have been infringed. That is the concern of the ambassador.”

Owen reflected. He could simply tell Guzman to go and jump in the Nile. Or he could be more politic. In Cairo it was nearly always best to be more politic. He adopted a reasonable tone..

“At the time of entry the premises were not known to be foreign,” he said. “They were known only to be a particularly vicious brothel. I must say, I find it a little surprising that the ambassador should be defending the rights of someone engaged in conducting such a place!” “Perhaps,” said Guzman drily, “he was unaware of the use to which the premises were put.”

Owen was not sure that the words were meant ironically. Guzman spoke as flatly as he usually did; but was there a glint of humour? If so, it did not survive long.

“The fact remains,” said Guzman, “that Syrian rights have been infringed and the Khedive embarrassed.”

Owen decided to be politic still.

“If the Khedive has been embarrassed,” he said smoothly, “it was, of course, inadvertently on our part. I hope you will convey my personal apologies.”

Guzman was taken aback by this; indeed he appeared slightly put out. He hesitated, as if uncertain about prolonging the interview, and then said, almost tentatively: “The soldier-?”

“Will be dealt with by the Army,” said Owen heartily.

He edged towards the door. Guzman, however, ignored the hint. “But will he?” he asked suddenly.

“Will he — ”

“Be dealt with by the Army?”

“Of course.”

“Will it,” said Guzman meaningfully, “get the chance?”

Owen was caught slightly off balance.

“I don’t quite follow you.”

“I understand,” said Guzman, “that the man is still in your custody.”

“Ah yes,” said Owen, recovering, “but that is only temporarily.” “How temporary?”

“Very temporary,” said Owen firmly. He was not going to be steam-rollered by Guzman.

“May I ask why you are holding him?”

“I just want to ask him a few questions.”

“About-?” “Oh, military matters,” he said vaguely, edging further towards the door.

“Military matters?” Guzman looked puzzled. “But surely that is the concern of the Army?”

Owen realized that he had been cornered again.

“Some are my concern,” he said off-handedly.

“Ah! Security!”

Owen smiled politely, and uninformatively. He took up a stance by the door. Guzman did not appear to notice. He seemed sunk in thought.

“This man you are holding-”

“Yes?”

“What precisely-?”

“I am afraid I am not at liberty to tell you that.”

Guzman was still thinking.

“Was he at the Kantara barracks?” he asked.

Owen continued to smile politely but did not reply.

Guzman thought again. Then he made up his mind.

“I would like to see him,” he said abruptly.

“That,” said Owen, “would not be possible.”

After Guzman had gone, Nikos came back into the room.

“That was odd,” he said. “Why is he so interested?”

“In the sergeant, you mean? Don’t know. For the same reason as us, perhaps.”

“Perhaps,” said Nikos, and went away again still looking thoughtful.

Owen opened his file and worked steadily till lunch. Then he went to the club. In the cloakroom he ran into his friend John, the Sirdar’s aide.

“I don’t want to be seen with you!” his friend said, pretending flight.

“Why not?”

“You’re always doing horrid things to the Army.”

“What am I doing now?”

“Kidnapping its soldiers. Or so I am informed.”

Owen was surprised.

“Christ! That’s quick!” he said. “Who informed you?”

“Someone from the Khediviate.”

“Really?” A nasty suspicion dawned in Owen’s mind. “You don’t, by chance, happen to know his name?”

"He was unwilling to give it but I extracted it. Guzman.” "Guzman! The bastard!”

"You do seem to be having trouble with your acquaintances,” said John.

“When did you get the message?”

“About an hour ago.”

“He must have rung as soon as he got out of my office. The bastard!”

“I take it,” said John, drying his hands, “that the poor kidnapped soldier is a certain ex-sergeant from Kantara?”

“You take it rightly.”

“In that case,” said John, "I wish to know no more. What I can tell you in confidence is that unfortunately I was unable to pass the message on before lunch as I was so busy. Naturally I shall inform my superiors as soon as possible. However, it may be that I shall be detained at lunch by someone who insists on buying me a drink and so I shall miss the afternoon mail with my memo. In which case it would only reach them tomorrow morning.”

“You’re a pal,” said Owen.

“Would it help?”

“It would. It really would.”

“Mind! Till tomorrow only!”

“That should be long enough.”

“In any case,” said John, “it would be bad for the Sirdar’s digestion if he was told that sort of thing just after lunch.”

“We wouldn’t want that to happen. But now, about your own digestion-?”

“A drink would go down very nicely. Yes, please.”

Owen called in at the office after his swim. Nikos was still there. “I don’t understand it,” he said when Owen told him about Guzman’s message. “Why would he do a thing like that?”

“Because he’s a nasty bastard, that’s why!” said Owen with feeling. Nikos shook his head. “That wouldn’t be the only reason.”

“What other reason could there be?”

“I don’t know,” said Nikos.

Owen left him thinking and went on into his own room. Nikos hated things to be untidy, unexplained. He would worry at this like a terrier with a bone.

Some time later he came into Owen’s room.