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

He caught Owen’s eye and grimaced.

“I know,” he said. “He hasn’t the brains. But he thinks he has, and I don’t want to be the one to undeceive him. Frankly,” he said, “I have not been altogether skilful in my relations with my son.”

“I’ll think about it,” said Owen.

Nuri stood up, beaming.

“That is all I ask,” he said, stretching out his hand. “It is good of you even to consider it. As Sir Eldon said only this morning, Ahmed is a damned nuisance.”

Owen took in with amusement the reference to the British Agent. Nuri believed in letting people know how the cards were stacked.

As Nuri went out he said: “You have met my daughter, I believe?” “Zeinab,” said Owen. “Yes.”

“I’m pleased about that,” said Nuri. “At least you won’t think that the whole family is imbecile.”

“So what do you want me to do?” asked Garvin.

“I’d like you to get a deportation order signed,” said Owen, “and handed to me for execution.”

“We don’t want anything to happen on the way to the docks,” Garvin warned.

“Not my style. I just want to make sure he gets on a particular boat. So that I can arrange a reception committee at the other end.” “He’ll smell a rat.”

“He won’t even know it’s me. They’ll be just ordinary officials.” “Not too ordinary. Otherwise he’ll get away.”

“He won’t get away.”

Garvin mused.

“This reception committee you’re organizing,” he said. “I don’t know that I go along with that sort of thing. Especially in a foreign country. Especially in a foreign country like Turkey.”

“I’m not organizing it myself,” Owen explained. “I’m just tipping off someone else so that they can organize it.”

“Friends?”

“The authorities. The Sultan.”

Garvin looked surprised. Then he understood.

“It may come unstuck,” he said. “There are plenty of Young Turk sympathizers in the police and among the Sultan’s own men. They may see it doesn’t happen.”

“I’ve thought of that, too. I think I know a way of getting a special word to the Sultan personally. After that it’s up to him. Entirely,” said Owen.

“That’s it, is it?” asked Garvin, looking at him. “You’re not involved in any other way?”

“Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“I shouldn’t hope to die,” said Garvin. “Someone might take you seriously.”

“I’m not involved in any other way.”

Garvin weighed the assurance dispassionately. Apparently he came to the conclusion either that Owen was speaking the truth or that it did not matter if he was not, for he said: “OK then. I’ll see what I can do.”

He shook the tiny bazaar bell on his desk and asked the orderly to bring him a form.

Owen was a little disquieted. He had not expected Garvin to envisage other possibilities. Having the law on their side, the English did not need to have recourse to such things, although Owen knew that most of the countries around them did. Perhaps it was just Garvin’s chilly way.

Garvin made out the form.

“I shall take this to Harry personally,” he said.

Harry was the adviser to the Interior Minister.

“The Minister himself has to sign it. Harry will get him to do that, but I can’t answer for its confidentiality afterwards. Not five minutes afterwards!”

“Let me make a phone call,” said Owen, “and I’ll be ready to move.”

Owen made his phone call. Garvin saw Harry and gave the deportation order into Owen’s own hands. The order was served immediately on a Guzman who for once was taken by surprise. A handful of picked men escorted him to the docks and put him on an Istanbul-bound steamer where he was placed at once in a locked cabin with a man, again picked, outside the door. And within an hour the steamer was nosing out into the Mediterranean.

Owen and Georgiades watched it go.

“Suleiman will be all right,” said Georgiades. “The problems will start at the other end.”

“They’ll be problems for Guzman,” said Owen.

When Owen got back to Cairo he called in Nuri to see him. That was twice in two days and Nikos was doubly impressed.

Nuri, however, was not surprised.

“It’s always best to move fast in these matters,” he said.

“How fast we move depends on you,” said Owen.

“Ah?”

Nuri settled himself back in the chair to hear the terms of the deal. “In things like this,” said Owen, “the pawns are not important.” “Just so,” said Nuri, “the Mustafas.”

“The Ahmeds.”

Nuri was a little surprised at the classification but saw that it had potential and nodded polite agreement.

“What matters,” said Owen, “are the persons moving the pawns.” Nuri looked at Owen quickly but said nothing. Perhaps he feared that this extension of the classification was directed at him.

“Take the attack on you, for instance,” said Owen. “Mustafa was only a tool. So was Ahmed. A more complex one, possibly, but still only a tool. He took some things on himself-”

“Foolishly.”

“Foolishly,” Owen agreed, “but generously. He wanted to put the world to rights-”

“He’s young,” said Nuri, but looked pleased.

“-but basically he was being used. It’s the people who were using him that I’m concerned with.”

“Yes?”

“I was wondering how you felt about Guzman.”

Nuri took his time about replying. Owen knew that he was figuring out all the angles.

“Guzman is a dangerous man,” he said eventually.

“Yes. Did you know how dangerous?”

Nuri shook his head.

“No,” he said. “He’s always been secretive. I knew he was fanatical and suspected he was extremist. But I did not imagine that he was so actively involved.”

“You worked with him?”

“Well,” said Nuri, “alongside him. We were never close.” “Rivals?”

“You could call it that.”

“He let Ahmed have the gun. Is that his way with rivals?”

Nuri was silent.

“I’m not saying he meant Mustafa to kill you,” said Owen, “but I don’t think he would have minded if he had.”

Nuri smiled wintrily.

“I think that is an accurate assessment,” he agreed.

“Why is that?” asked Owen. “Is he like that with everybody or has he got something particular against you?”

"Both,” said Nuri. “He is like that with everybody and he has something particular against me.”

“And you’re not going to tell me what that something particular is.” “No,” said Nuri. “I am not.”

They both laughed.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Owen, “because I think I know it already.” “Ah!” said Nuri, and laughed, but took it in.

“Your negotiations with Abdul Murr.”

Nuri said nothing; but Owen saw that the remark registered. “However,” he said, “ that is not my concern at the moment. What I want to know is this: is he going to try again? More seriously this time?”

“To kill me?” Nuri’s eyes rested thoughtfully on the ivory carving of his stick. “Possibly,” he acknowledged, looking up at Owen.

“I was wondering if it would be a good idea to take measures,” said Owen.

Nuri’s eyes met his unblinkingly.

“That could be arranged,” he said quietly.

Owen saw that Nuri had misunderstood him.

“Not that,” he said.

“Oh?”

“Guzman left the country this morning.”

“Really?” said Nuri, surprised. “Already? How disappointing!” “Not very,” said Owen. “We pushed him. We put him on a boat. The San Demetriou. It left Alexandria this morning.”

Nuri looked puzzled.

“Then-?”

“For Istanbul. He’s in a locked cabin and will stay there until he arrives.”