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

“She would be at risk if she gave you the name,” Zeinab said. “And she’s a very small fish indeed.”

“I would like to help, ” said Owen, “only you’ll have to tell me more.”

Zeinab sat thinking it over.

Owen was content to wait.

Eventually she made up her mind.

“I will ask her,” she said.

“Thank you.”

“But you are not to speak to her. Even if I fail. Promise me.”

“Very well,” said Owen. “I promise.”

The next morning he received a phone call from her. She had obtained the information he wanted, she said. Better still, she had arranged for him to meet the lady in question. He was to go to the Sharia el Mourani that evening about seven. There was a hairdresser’s, Steffano’s. It had an entrance from the rear, in the Sharia el Cheriffein. Next to. a perfume-seller’s. He was to go in that entrance. She would use the other one. Someone would be expecting him and would show him to a room.

“Steffano’s,” he said, “isn’t that…?”

“Yes,” she said. “That’s why it will be quite safe. Everyone uses it. They will think it just another assignation.”

One of the ways in which Cairene women evaded the constraints their husbands placed on them was through private appointments in apartments set aside for that purpose, usually above fashionable shops. Respectable ones allowed amateur partners only; but there was, too, a thriving trade in boys. Good-looking European boys were preferred. Steffano’s was not a house of that sort, but the fact that Owen was European would fit.

He found the entrance without difficulty. A Greek girl was waiting inside. She looked carefully at Owen and then led the way upstairs.

He was shown into a room with a deep, soft carpet, divans and exquisite brocade drapings over the walls. The girl motioned to him to sit down on one of the divans and then left the room.

Owen heard a faint noise behind him and looked round quickly. Half-concealed behind some of the draping was a door. It opened fully and Zeinab came into the room. Behind her he could just see the figure of another woman.

“My friend does not think it proper to be in the room with you alone,” Zeinab said, “or even with me present. She will stay in the room beyond and talk through the door.”

“How will I know it is the woman I think?” asked Owen.

Zeinab looked at him sharply.

“You will have to take my word,” she said. “I wouldn’t have gone to all this trouble if it was another woman.”

“Is she veiled?”

“She has her veil.” “I would like to see her face.”

“You can’t,” said Zeinab flatly.

“For a moment,” said Owen. “Through the doorway would be enough.”

Zeinab turned and spoke to the woman. There was some debate. Eventually she stood aside. The woman beyond timidly dropped her veil, just for an instant. It was enough. It was the woman Owen had seen in the Syrian’s house.

He indicated that he was satisfied. Zeinab walked across and sat down on the divan opposite him. If he talked directly to her he would have his back to the other woman. He compromised by sitting half round so that he could both address Zeinab and keep an eye on the door behind him. It was just a precaution.

“The society,” said Zeinab, “is Tademah.”

“How does she know?”

“She has seen a letter.”

“Signed Tademah?”

“Yes.”

“Addressed to her husband?”

“Yes.”

“What did the letter say?”

Zeinab looked over his shoulder. The woman began to speak, hesitantly and so softly that he could hardly hear her.

“It spoke of guns,” she said.

“Which your husband had? Or was going to get?”

“To get, I think.” The woman was almost inaudible.

“The note asked him to get them?”

“Yes,” the woman breathed.

“Did it say how the guns would be collected?”

“I do not remember.”

“Or how they would be paid for?”

“I do not remember.”

He heard a little sob.

“It does not matter,” he said. “But you are sure it was from Tademah?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “It said at the bottom.”

“Just Tademah? No other name?”

“No.”

After a moment she said: “It was at the top of the letter, too. It said, ‘Greetings from Tademah.’ ”

“Did it threaten your husband?” “Not this time.”

He could barely catch the words.

“There have been other letters?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know? Have you seen them?”

“No. My husband has spoken of them.”

“He is worried by them?”

“Yes,” she said, “yes.”

“Do they come often? How often do the letters come?”

There was a pause.

“I don’t know,” the woman said eventually. “He does not always tell me.”

“But he worries about them?”

“Yes,” she said, “always. He always worries about them. He does not sleep.”

“You know when he is worried,” Owen said. “How often is that? Once a month?”

“No,” she said. “Not as often. Three months, four months perhaps.”

“Have you ever seen any of the men?”

This time he could not hear the answer at all. He looked at Zeinab. She shook her head.

“Does your husband go out to meet them?”

Again he could not hear.

Zeinab shook her head again.

“You’d better stop,” she said.

“One question more,” said Owen. “How long has your husband been receiving these letters?”

This time he heard the answer clearly.

“For two years,” she said. “For two years we have had this badness with us. Two years of not sleeping at night, of worrying about my husband, about what we would do if… if…”

Zeinab stood up.

“You see?” she said.

The woman’s voice steadied.

“Of worrying about the children,” she said.

Owen stood up, too.

“Thank you,” he said to he woman behind him. “You have been very helpful. You have told me what I needed. I shall remember this and be a friend to you.”

Zeinab went into the room with the woman and shut the door behind her. Owen left by the way he had come.

He went home to change before going out to dinner. There was a message waiting for him. He rang the office at once.

“You’d better come in,” said Nikos. “There’s been an attack on Ahmed.”

“I thought we had a man on him?” said Owen.

“We did,” said Georgiades.

“Then what the hell was he doing?”

“Watching,” said Georgiades, “as he was told to.”

“Yes, but not to watch him being half-killed.”

“I’ll kick his backside,” said Georgiades. “Tell you what. You kick his backside. It will have more effect.”

He went to the door and bellowed. “Ya Hamid.”

Bare feet padded along the corridor and a subdued man in a dirty white gown came into the room.

“Effendi!” he said, and touched his heart.

“Hamid!” said Owen sternly.

“Yes, effendi?”

“What is all this?”

“Tell him the whole sad story,” Georgiades directed.

Hamid studied his toes.

“I was watching the boy,” he said in a low voice. “He came out of the college with his friend and walked along the Sharia el Torba. They crossed the Sharia Mohammed Ali and went into the Sharia es Souekeh. They stopped at a lemonade-seller and sat there for a long time. Some other young joined them and they talked a lot. Then the others left and the boy and his friend went on towards the Sharia Khalig el Masri. Just before they came to the Mosque el Behat some men fell upon them.” “How many?”

“Four, effendi. They were big, strong men with clubs. They knocked the boy down and beat him sorely. Then his friend ran away and I heard him calling for the police.”