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

But then, were all these things related to each other anyway? They might all be separate, nothing to do with each other. The attack on Nuri, the grenades, Ahmed’s thrashing-they might all be entirely unconnected, just brought together in his mind because by chance they all came over his desk in the same week. The last of them, Ahmed’s thrashing, was almost certainly nothing to do with the other two. Perhaps the other two were not connected either. They were all separate. The only thing they had in common was that he had to solve them.

It wouldn’t do. He knew what was bothering him. The grenades. The Carpet. The only way he could set his mind at rest about the arrangements for the Carpet was by finding out who had those missing grenades: finding out and catching them. And the only lead he had to that was the Syrian, the gun and the attack on Nuri. And on that front he had made absolutely no progress at all.

As the morning wore on he became more and more conscious of the Return of the Carpet hanging over him like a heavy black cloud.

As soon as Mahmoud spoke, Owen knew that something was wrong.

“Are you going to be holding Fakhri?” Mahmoud asked, without preamble.

“Yes,” said Owen, surprised. “I think so.”

“On security grounds?”

“Yes,” said Owen. “Why?”

“I would challenge your decision. There seems no security issue. It is a straightforward criminal offence.”

“So?”

“So Fakhri should be transferred at once into the custody of the Parquet.”

Owen held the telephone away from his ear and looked at it. What was wrong with Mahmoud this morning?

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“Nothing’s the matter. It’s just that I would like Fakhri transferred at once, please.”

“Is this official?”

“What do you mean?” The voice sounded slightly puzzled.

“Are your bosses on to you or something?”

“No one is on to me at all,” said Mahmoud stiffly.

Owen found it hard to believe. Unless-unless something had happened to upset Mahmoud. Perhaps at their meeting yesterday. He racked his brains to think of what it could be. Something he had said? It was obviously only too easy to touch off the sensitive Mahmoud. But he was not aware of having said or done anything which could have this effect. Something Fakhri had said?

“I was thinking of questioning him again later today,” he said into the mouthpiece.

“If you will see that he’s sent round immediately,’’ said Mahmoud, “I will ensure that he is properly questioned.”

It was the “properly” that did it; that, and the lingering, rankling memory of the “amateur” remark earlier.

“I am afraid I am unable to release the prisoner for questioning by the Parquet,” Owen said coldly, and put the phone down.

If it had not been for Mahmoud’s tone he might well have been willing to transfer Fakhri. Fakhri was of no real interest to him. But Mahmoud had irritated him. He had thought Mahmoud a person he could get on with, but if he continually blew hot and cold in this way he would be a strain to be with; and Owen was beginning to wonder this morning whether the strain was worthwhile.

He wondered what it was that had rubbed Mahmoud up the wrong way. Had it been that remark of Fakhri’s, no, perhaps he’d not actually said it, just implied it: that Owen had known all along what Nuri was plotting? Owen had not had a chance to deny it and he had seen Mahmoud look at him. That was just the sort of thing to touch Mahmoud off.

He shrugged his shoulders. ¦ There was nothing he could do just now to put the matter right, if that was the matter. That was supposing he even wanted to try. And right now he wasn’t too sure about that.

He returned to his brooding. The heavy black cloud was still there. If anything, it was even heavier and blacker than before.

Worse.

Guzman rang.

“That’s all I bloody need!” said Owen. “Tell him I’m tied up in a meeting.”

A few moments later Nikos came back.

“He doesn’t believe you,” he said. “I can’t think why. He says get you out of the meeting.”

Owen picked up the phone resignedly.

“Yes?”

“Guzman here.”

“Yes? What can I do for you?”

He hoped he sounded preoccupied.

“The Khedive is concerned-”

“Yes, yes.”

“-about the arrangements for the Return of the Holy Carpet. Really concerned. I understand you have been put in charge of security?”

“Yes,” said Owen, “that is correct.” “In that case,” said Guzman, “it becomes all the more important for me to check the arrangements beforehand.”

“I’ll send you a copy.”

“I need a briefing.”

“There’s a general briefing tomorrow morning,” said Owen. “Do come.”

“Why was I not invited?”

“You are invited. Do come.”

“I need a personal briefing. I would like to go through the arrangements with you in some detail.”

“Difficult-” began Owen.

“Before the meeting tomorrow,” said Guzman. “It might save you embarrassment if I have checked it through privately beforehand.” He put the phone down.

Owen was left holding his end, seething with fury. First Mahmoud’s “proper” questioning, then Guzman’s checking beforehand. He gave his anger full rein. At least it was a distraction from the sick feeling of impotence that overtook him whenever he thought about the Return of the Carpet.

He made up his mind and reached for his sun helmet.

“Going out?” asked Nikos, affecting surprise.

“Too bloody right I’m going out!” said Owen.

“In case anyone else rings?” asked Nikos.

Owen had intended to go to the Sporting Club but as he came out on to the Bab el Khalk he changed his mind. If he lunched at the club he would be sure to meet someone who would ask him about the Carpet and just at the moment that was the very last thing he wanted to talk about. Instead, he decided to find a quiet restaurant and dine alone.

As he crossed the top end of the Kasr el Nil, where there was a little cluster of fashionable European shops, he saw Zeinab come out of an expensive perfumery.

“Hello!” she said. “This is fortunate. I have something for you.” “That’s nice,” he said. “Why don’t you give it me over lunch? I was just looking around for somewhere.”

“I never eat lunch,” she said. “Perhaps some coffee?”

They were standing near one of the large European restaurants. Normally Owen would not be seen dead in such a place. It did, however, follow the European style with respect to women. They could talk without attracting attention.

At this hour in the morning, late for coffee and early for lunch, the restaurant was far from crowded and they found a small table in a corner cut off by potted palms from the main concourse. Zeinab sat down with relief.

“Shopping!” she said.

Her veil this morning was three-quarter length, a decent concession to Moslem susceptibilities. She had bound her hair again in a scarf. Hair as well as face was an offence to strict Muslims.

She rummaged in her handbag and produced a small sheet of folded notepaper.

“This is what I have to give you,” she said.

Owen took it and opened it.

An address was written down.

“It’s from Raissa,” said Zeinab.

“Raissa?”

“You know. You’ve spoken to her. Aziz’s wife.”

“I didn’t know that was her name.”

“She wants to be helpful. You said that if he was helpful you might not punish Aziz.”

“Yes,” said Owen.

He looked down at the address.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Aziz has gone there sometimes. After a letter.”

Owen put the paper away in his pocket.

“Thank you,” he said. “And thank her. Tell her that she has indeed been helpful and that I will remember it.”