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

“The Khedive goes off at some point,” said Paul. “Usually early because he’s bored.”

“He goes off independently,” said Owen, “by car.”

“Is that a good idea?” asked one of the officers. “Wouldn’t it be better if they all left together?”

“We could put a proper guard on them that way,” said another. Paul shook his head. “It won’t do,” he said. “The Khedive will want to do his own thing.”

“He’d better look after himself, then,” an officer said.

There were grunts of approval.

“What about the Agent?” asked John.

“He’ll go one minute after the Khedive goes,” said Paul.

“Will he want an escort?”

“No,” said Paul. “Williams will drive him home.”

“Is that OK?”

“It’s been OK so far,” said Paul tartly.

Owen decided that it was time to assert himself.

“What will happen,” he said firmly, “is this. At some point the Khedive will leave. He will go in a car with his usual escort, one car in front, one car behind. He will be accompanied by a mounted troop, who will ride on both sides of the car, allowing people to see him but at a distance, and obstructing possible aggressors. The convoy will proceed to the Palace via the Sharia Mabdouli. Shortly afterwards, the Agent will leave, in his own car, with Williams driving, two guards, and another car escorting. Those cars will proceed independently by another route back to the consulate. At some point later, when the ceremony has been adjudged to have been finished-”

“Who’s adjudging it?” asked John.

“I am. The main body of troops will move off down the Sharia Mohammed Ali, turn left at the Bab el Khalk and make their way along the sharias Ghane el Edaa and el Khoubri back to the barracks where they will disperse. The Sirdar will ride with them.”

“Will he have an escort?” asked Paul.

“He’ll have the Army,” said one of the officers stiffly.

“Yes, but if he’s riding at the head of them, won’t that leave him a bit exposed?” “There will be an advance party,” said John reassuringly.

“Good,” said Owen briskly. “Then I’ll leave that bit of it to you.” He looked at Brooker, who had been noticeably subdued throughout.

“Why the Sharia Mohammed Ali?” asked one of the officers. “Isn’t that rather a long way round?”

“It’s the broader street,” said Owen, “the best for a procession and the safest from the point of view of grenades.”

“Grenades,” said one of the officers, who hadn’t heard. “Bloody hell!”

“That OK, then?”

The party began to break up. Paul and John collared Owen to go for a drink.

“You can have another when this lot is all over,” said Paul. “In fact, you can have dozens. And I will join you!” he said fervently.

Although the encounter with Zeinab had not gone entirely satisfactorily and had ended, in Owen’s view, prematurely, it had restored him to a more balanced view of the world. He had even gone so far, the previous evening, as to instruct Nikos to transfer both Fakhri and the other men held in connection with the attack on Ahmed into the custody of the Parquet.

Because he was busy it was not until the next evening that he received a response.

“I’ve been trying to reach you all day,” said Mahmoud.

“Sorry!” said Owen. “I’ve been tied up pretty well the whole time.”

He thought he had better explain in case Mahmoud disbelieved him.

“I have a briefing session this morning. Two briefing sessions,” he said, remembering Guzman. “It’s the Return of the Carpet.”

“Oh,” said Mahmoud. “The best of luck. Glad it’s nothing to do with me.”

“That’s what they all say.”

The responsibility of the Carpet still hung over him. He knew its leaden weight would not go away until the affair was over.

“I wanted to apologize,” said Mahmoud. “I shouldn’t have gone on like that yesterday.”

“It’s all right.”

“I don’t know what got into me.”

“I thought it might be what Fakhri had said. You know, his helpful suggestion that I had been aware all the time what Nuri was up to and hadn’t bothered to share it with you.” There was a silence. “Something like that,” Mahmoud mumbled.

“Well, I hadn’t been aware.”

“Of course you hadn’t!” said Mahmoud warmly. “That’s what I told myself. But it was too late then.”

“It hadn’t been a good morning.”

He told Mahmoud about Guzman.

Mahmoud commiserated.

“I think we were both disappointed that the Fakhri lead didn’t seem to be getting us very far,” he said.

“That’s right,” said Owen. “For a moment I thought it was all falling into place. Have you got anywhere with him today?”

“No. I think he really has told us all he knows.”

“Pity.”

“Yes.”

“Not very helpful.”

“Not in itself,” said Mahmoud.

“What do you mean?”

Mahmoud hesitated.

“I had an idea,” he said. “Suppose somebody else wanted to stop Nuri’s little deal? Only they were not so concerned to limit themselves to beating.”

Owen was still thinking it over when Zeinab rang.

“In answer to your question,” she said, “the one you did not ask: Raoul loves me dearly. Which is very sad for him. ”

And rang off.

Owen now had two things to think about. Between the two he became very confused.

He summoned Georgiades.

“Mean anything?” he said, showing him the address Zeinab had given him.

“Yes,” said Georgiades instantly.

He went back to his office and returned with a file.

“It’s a printer.”

He took out a leaflet.

“You’ve seen this before,” he said.

He laid it on the desk in front of Owen. It was the leaflet Georgiades had been given by Ahmed.

“He printed that?”

“Yes. And other things.”

Georgiades put the file on his desk. Owen opened it. Inside was a selection of handbills, leaflets and pamphlets.

“All his own work,” said Georgiades.

They were of a violent, inflammatory kind, similar in tone to the one he had already seen.

Owen picked one out.

“They seem to have a thing about the Sirdar,” he said.

“About the British generally,” said Georgiades.

He showed Owen some more.

“About most people,” said Owen, turning them over.

“Not about Greeks,” said Georgiades. “They’ve left me out of it. So far.”

“Anti-Turk?” asked Owen.

“Why should he be anti-Turk? He’s a Turk himself.”

“Well, isn’t that interesting?” said Owen, thinking about other Ahmed connections.

“There’s a room over the shop,” said Georgiades. “Two men live there. Others go there.”

“You’ve got a man on the place?”

“I’ve got someone who calls in. Regularly.”

“Better have someone on it full time from now on. At least for the next week.”

The next day a vendor of religious knick-knacks took up position in the street where the printer lived. He suffered badly from ophthalmia and was almost blind. The little boys of the street could easily have stolen the things from his tray had it been worth it. The women took pity on him and brought him bowls of durra, especially when, in the heat of the afternoon, he stopped his fruitless patrolling and sat down in the shade with his back against the cool stone of the wall and his tray in front of him in the dust. There were similar figures along the street and another representative of God’s afflicted was not noticed.

The day before the Carpet returned, when the workmen were putting the final touches to the pavilions in the big square before the Citadel and the small shopkeepers along the Sharia Mohammed Ali were decking their shops with bunting, the two men moved out.