Michael Pearce - Mamur Zapt and the Return of the Carpet

He stopped with a grin.

‘Or perhaps not. You are busy men. And it is not every day that one receives a visit from the Mamur Zapt.’

‘I shall enjoy reading your memoirs,’ said Owen.

‘I am afraid,’ said Nuri, with real regret, ‘that the best bits have to be left out. Even in Egypt.’

‘The Place de l’Opéra,’ murmured Mahmoud doggedly.

‘The Place de l’Opéra,’ said Nuri. ‘Just so.’

Even then he shot off at a tangent.

‘The case,’ he said. ‘How is it going?’

‘All right,’ said Mahmoud, caught off guard. ‘We are making progress.’

‘Ah? What have you found out?’

‘We are only at the beginning,’ said Mahmoud reluctantly.

‘Nothing, then?’

‘We are holding a man.’

‘The fellah?’

‘Yes.’

Nuri waved a dismissive hand.

‘A tool,’ he said.

Mahmoud rallied determinedly.

‘A number of points have emerged from my inquiries,’ he said, ‘some of which are interesting and which I would like to check. Against your account.’

‘Oh?’ said Nuri. ‘What interesting points?’

‘That, I shall not be altogether certain of until I have heard your account,’ said Mahmoud blandly.

Nuri threw up his hands with a laugh.

‘You have beaten me!’ he conceded. It was evidently his way to play games.

He signalled to one of the servants, who came up and rearranged the rug round the old man’s shoulders.

‘I will tell you what happened,’ said Nuri, ‘although I am afraid it will be a very sketchy account.’

‘Even that may help,’ said Mahmoud.’

‘Yes,’ said Nuri sceptically. ‘It may.’

He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes.

‘I had been meeting colleagues—former colleagues, I should say—in the Hotel Continental. When the meeting was over I went to find my arabeah. It was not there, so I went out into the Place to look for it. Suddenly—’ his eyes opened—‘I saw a man in front of me raising a gun.’

‘How close?’

‘From me to you. Perhaps a little more.’

Mahmoud waited for Nuri to think back.

‘And then?’

Nuri frowned.

‘And then I don’t know what happened.’

‘Were you conscious of the gun going off?’

‘I heard a shot. Yes, I certainly heard a shot. And I fell down. Though whether before or after or at the same time I really cannot remember. Everything is very hazy.’

‘You may have dazed yourself in falling,’ said Mahmoud.

‘The doctor thinks so,’ said Nuri. ‘He claims to detect a bruise on the back of my head. I must say, I am not conscious of it myself, but then, my livelihood does not depend on finding bumps on other people.’

‘You did see the man with the gun, though. Could you describe him?’

‘Not very well. I saw him only fleetingly.’

‘Was he dressed in European clothes?’

Nuri looked at him. ‘I have heard the accounts of my would-be assassin,’ he said drily, ‘and you yourself confirmed that he was a fellah.’

Mahmoud apologized.

‘I was merely trying to prompt you to recall exactly what you saw,’ he said. ‘Was he young or old, for instance, what kind of galabeah was he wearing?’

‘I do not,’ said Nuri Pasha, ‘bother to distinguish one fellah from another.’

There was a little silence.

‘In any case,’ said Nuri, ‘the fellah is not the one that matters. He is merely a tool.’

‘Have you any idea,’ asked Owen, ‘who might be using him as a tool?’

‘I am afraid not.’

‘Can you think of anyone who would wish to kill you?’

Nuri looked at Owen with surprise.

‘Mon cher,’ he said. ‘ Every body wants to kill me. Tout le monde.’

‘Come,’ said Owen, ‘you have enemies enough, I am sure, anyone in your position is bound to, but there is a difference between having an enemy and having an enemy who wants to kill you.’

‘You are right,’ said Nuri Pasha, ‘if a trifle literal. I am plainly guilty of exaggeration. Let me try to be more accurate. Only half the population of Egypt wants to kill me. The other half would just be happy to see it happen.’ He laughed, and then put his hand on Owen’s arm. ‘I joke, mon cher,’ he said, ‘but it is no joke really.’

Owen nodded.

The word ‘Denshawai’ did not need to be spoken.

Nuri’s eyes wandered away again across the garden. The girl had gone, however.

‘The fellah who tried to shoot you,’ said Mahmoud, ‘had a personal grudge against you.’

‘Oh yes,’ said Nuri.

‘It appears you took a liking to his wife’s sister—a peasant girl, like the one we saw. Only on that occasion you did send for her.’

‘Really?’ said Nuri, without much interest. ‘If so, she would have been well paid.’

‘It is just that it gives a motive,’ said Mahmoud, ‘sufficient in itself. We do not necessarily have to look for an ulterior one. The affair, that is,’ he ended carefully, ‘may be merely a private one.’

‘Since when,’ asked Nuri, ‘has the Mamur Zapt been interested in affairs which are merely private?’

‘Have you received any threatening letters?’ asked Owen.

Nuri made a gesture of dismissal.

‘Mon cher!’ he said, almost reproachfully. ‘Dozens!’

‘Recently? In the last two weeks?’

‘I expect so,’ said Nuri. ‘It is not the part of my mail to which I give the greatest attention.’

He looked at Owen.

‘You would not expect a killer to give warning, surely?’

‘It happens surprisingly often,’ said Owen.

Nuri laughed. ‘I expect it is the weakness for rhetoric characteristic of those engaged in politics,’ he said.

He glanced at Mahmoud.

‘Especially Egyptian politics.’

‘Not just Egyptian,’ said Owen. ‘However, there is a different explanation. The terrorist clubs tend to contact their targets first. Especially,’ he added, looking directly at Nuri, ‘when they are trying to extort money.’

Nuri shook his head.

‘If they had asked for money I would probably have paid.’

‘You have received a communication, then?’

‘I was speaking generally.’

Nuri leaned back in his chair and called to one of his servants. The man disappeared into the house.

‘You must speak to Ahmed,’ he said. ‘He deals with my mail.’

A sulky young Egyptian came out of the house. He seemed to walk across the lawn deliberately slowly, placed himself directly in front of Nuri, with his back to Owen and Mahmoud, and said:

‘Yes?’

‘Mon cher,’ said Nuri reproachfully. ‘We have guests.’

The young man deigned to throw them a glance.

‘Interesting guests,’ said Nuri. ‘Le Parquet et le Mamur Zapt.’

The glance the young man threw now was one of undisguised hostility.

Nuri sighed.

‘Our guests were asking if I have received any threatening letters recently?’

‘You always receive threatening letters,’ said the young man harshly. ‘Deservedly.’

‘I would like to see,’ said Owen, ‘any that have been received in the last three weeks.’

The young man looked at Nuri.

‘Please!’ said Nuri. ‘If you have not already consigned them to the wastepaper basket as they deserve.’

‘Very well,’ said the young man, ‘if you wish.’

He went off into the house.

Nuri regarded him fondly.

‘My son,’ he said, ‘by a slave girl. He hates me.’

Ahmed returned with a sheaf of papers which he gave to Nuri, who in turn passed them to Owen.

They were very much as Owen had expected: abusive letters from individuals, either badly written or in the ornate script of the bazaar letter-writer; scurrilous attacks by obscure radical organizations, darkly hinting that Nuri would get his deserts; savage denunciations by extremist religious groups, threatening retribution; and the expected extortionary letters from the new political ‘Clubs’ which had sprung up in such profusion in the last couple of years.