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

“This!” he said, burying his head in his arms again.

“Bombs do this,” said Owen. “Didn’t you know?”

Ahmed shook his head.

“They didn’t tell you, did they?”

“No,” said Ahmed.

“Who gave it you?”

“What?” said Ahmed, uncomprehending.

“The grenade. The bomb.”

Ahmed raised his head and looked back at Owen, shocked.

“No one,” he said. “No one. I swear!”

“Where did you get it from?”

Ahmed looked blank.

“You threw it,” said Owen. “Where did you get it from?”

“I didn’t!” Ahmed almost shrieked. “I didn’t! I didn't! I swear!” “Who gave it you?”

“No one! No one! I swear!”

Someone touched Owen on the arm. It was the constable who had held on to his stirrup.

"Effendi,” he said. “It wasn’t him. I saw.”

“Not him?”

"No, effendi. The man ran away.”

The man had recovered from his shock but the eyes were still wide, horrified.

“Yes,” said Owen. “I remember. You said.”

“I saw,” said the man. “I saw.”

Owen looked at McPhee, who led the man aside and began talking to him quietly.

Owen turned back to Ahmed.

“I didn’t know!” Ahmed groaned, rocking his body from side to side. "I didn’t know!”

“What didn’t you know?” said Owen, bending over him.

“That they would do this. They said-”

He burst into tears.

“What did they say?”

Ahmed was unable to speak. He just rocked to and fro.

“Come!” said Owen, slipping into Arabic. “Something terrible has been done and I need to know.”

Ahmed brought himself under control.

“They said-” he whispered, “they said it was leaflets only.”

“You were giving them out on the pavement,” said Owen.

“Yes, I would give them out. And they-”

“Yes?”

“They would throw them on to the ground. In front of the policemen and soldiers.”

“You would do this at the back?” said Owen.

“Yes.”

“And someone else would do it at the front?”

“Yes,” said Ahmed. “In front of the Sirdar.”

“It was not leaflets,” said Owen.

“No,” Ahmed whispered. “No.”

He buried his head in his arms. Owen touched him gently on the shoulder.

“Who threw it?”

“Farouz.”

“Where will I find him?”

“At Guzman’s. We were to go to Guzman’s after.”

“Guzman’s?” said Owen incredulously.

“Yes,” said Ahmed, looking up. “Didn’t you know?”

Afterwards, Owen understood. At the time he just had to act. He sent one of the policemen for Georgiades. With the others he headed straight for Guzman’s.

Georgiades reached him just as they got there.

“Here we are again,” he said. “What is it this time?”

“The same as it was last time,” said Owen savagely. “Only then we missed it.”

He told Georgiades.

“I always knew he was a bastard,” said Georgiades, “but that didn’t make him stand out.”

They went straight in. Farouz they caught almost at once. He was drinking water in the kitchen. He wasn’t even armed. Guzman got away. He was in a room upstairs and had more time. Later they learned he had taken refuge in the Syrian consulate.

McPhee exploded.

“Sir, I really must protest!” he said to Garvin.

“You don’t think I like it, do you?” asked Garvin.

They were in Garvin’s office later that afternoon. The soldiers were back in quarters, the Mahmal resting in a mosque, and the population at its siesta. In the evening they would come out on to the streets again and there might be trouble. Owen had police everywhere, though, and there were double guards on all military installations. He had great hopes of the day passing off without further incident.

John had rung him to give the Sirdar’s congratulations.

“He thinks you’re great,” said John. “He thinks he’s pretty great, too. Steadfastness under fire. Firm as a rock, cool as an iceberg. That sort of thing. Oh yes, and nothing actually happened.”

“To him,” said Owen.

“Well,” said John. “That’s what counts, isn’t it? Or isn’t it?”

The Agent’s praise had been more muted.

“He’s glad you got the men,” said Paul. “So am I. It might have become a habit.”

Garvin’s reaction was hard to tell. It was still unfinished business to him, probably, and he was waiting to see how it turned out.

“Can’t the Agent do something, sir?” asked McPhee.

“Like what? Protest?”

"I was hoping for something more, sir,” said McPhee.

“You mean ask the Sirdar to send in a regiment or something? He wants to do that already.”

“Well, we do run the country, sir,” said McPhee doggedly. “Sometimes I wonder if anybody runs the country,” said Garvin. “I certainly don’t.”

“Couldn’t he put pressure on the Khedive?”

“The Khedive’s delighted by the whole business. Anyway, Guzman is a Turk.”

“What’s he doing in the Syrian consulate, then?”

“He’s there because he’s a Turk.”

Since Egypt was still, legalistically, a Turkish possession, the Turks did not need diplomatic representation. If they could not work directly through the Khedive they drew on the services of friendly powers.

“You mean we can’t get at him at all, sir?” asked McPhee.

“That’s right,” said Garvin.

“I’ll get at him,” said Owen.

Ahmed was interrogated that evening. Interrogated, or questioned. Owen claimed that he was being interrogated, since he was held under security provisions and this was a military matter. Mahmoud pointed out that he was also being held in connection with the attack on Nuri, that this was a civil affair, and that the Parquet intended to question him. In the end they agreed that Ahmed was to be both interrogated and questioned.

Ahmed gave his answers in Owen’s office. He was no longer in a state of shock. Nevertheless, it was a very subdued young man who was brought in. He sat in a chair, looking down with unseeing eyes at his feet, waiting numbly for Owen to begin.

Owen, deliberately, did not begin at once. He had some papers on his desk-the estimates, alas, were still with him-which he pretended to go through, marking them with a pencil. Eventually he put the pencil down and said matter-of-factly:

“Did they tell you to stand there?”

Ahmed looked up startled.

“Outside the Beyt el Betani? That’s where you were, weren’t you?” “Yes,” said Ahmed.

“Giving out leaflets?”

“Yes.”

“Right by the water-cart?”

It was the water-cart which had taken the main force of the explosion, shielding the people on the pavement and accounting for the low level of serious injury.

“I think so,” said Ahmed.

“They told you to stand there?”

“Yes.”

“While someone else was going to stand further up the Sharia Mohammed Ali, just where the road narrows?”

“Yes.”

“You knew that, did you?”

“Yes.”

“Were they going to be in the street, do you know, or in a house?” “There was talk of a room.” ‘‘This was at the meeting before, when you were planning what you would do?”

“Yes.”

“Who was at the meeting?”

Ahmed hesitated.

“I don’t know,” he muttered finally, looking down.

“You were at the meeting, weren’t you?”

“Yes,” Ahmed admitted.

“Who else was there?”

Again the long hesitation. Owen was just making up his mind to press harder when Ahmed spoke with a rush.

“I was late,” he said, almost tearfully. “I had an essay to write. It had to be in the next day. He said it would be all right.”