The Mamur Zapt and the Return of the Carpet (21 page)

“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.”

“Do
not tell anyone else,” said Zeinab. “She is terrified, poor lamb. You have no
idea what it took for her to do this.”

Owen
nodded.

“You
can assure her,” he said, “that her husband is safe so far as I am concerned.”

“Good!”
said Zeinab with satisfaction.

He
would see that no action was brought. Garvin would make sure of that. He was
keen on maps.

They
sipped their coffee.

Owen
thought Zeinab deserved a reward. He told her about Fakhri. Zeinab was
astonished.

“Fakhri!”
she said. “I thought he was a friend!”

“I
don’t think it was too hostilely meant,” said Owen.

He
wondered why he felt the need to justify Fakhri.

“Not
hostilely meant? When he thrashes the poor boy within an inch of his life?”

Owen
noticed that Ahmed was now a poor boy. It may have rung a little hollow to
Zeinab, too, for she added hurriedly: “Though he may well have deserved it.”

“It
was meant as a warning,” said Owen.
“As your father
supposed.”

“Oh-ho!”
said Zeinab. “So it was political, then. Well, Fakhri wants to watch out. My
father is not likely to take this lying down.”

“He
did try to see that the beating was not taken too far,” said Owen
conciliatorily.

Again
he wondered why he was putting in a good word for Fakhri. “Did he?” said
Zeinab, unplacated. The veil stopped above her mouth. The lips tightened into a
straight line and the jaw became even more prominent. Owen suspected that
Fakhri would find he had Zeinab to reckon with, too.

“Pas si
formidable!”
he protested mildly, and touched her hand. Zeinab was startled but did not
withdraw her hand.

Owen
wanted to ask her about Raoul but decided that would be a mistake. Perhaps he
could do it obliquely.

“How
long have you know^Raissa?” he asked.

“A
year,” said Zeinab, “maybe two.”

“She
seems to trust you a lot.”

“She
doesn’t have anyone else.”

“Not
her husband?”

“Her husband, yes.”

“I
would have thought,” said Owen, “that she would have known other women in the
Syrian community.”

“She
does,” said Zeinab. “She doesn’t go out much, that’s all. It’s all those
children. Besides, Aziz is very strict.”

“He
has conventional views about women, does he?”

“Normal
views,” said Zeinab.

Owen
wondered how he could get there.

“What
about her?” he asked. “What’s
her own
family like?
She’s Raoul’s wife’s sister, isn’t she?”

“Yes,”
said Zeinab. “Raoul brought her over once he had settled down.”

“How
long ago was that?” asked Owen.

“Seven, eight years ago.
I don’t know. Why
do you ask?”

“Just
curious,” said Owen. “It’s the usual pattern isn’t it? One person goes to a
place, does well,
then
brings his family over. The
boys get
jobs,
the girls get married, usually to
friends.
And so a little community develops.”

“Yes,” said Zeinab. “Cairo is full of
communities like that.”

“But how do you fit in?” asked Owen.
“Usually they’re very tight little communities. They keep to themselves.
The Greeks to the Greeks, the Syrians to the Syrians.”

“Are you asking about me and Raoul?”
demanded Zeinab.

She pulled back her hand.

“Why,” she said, “you sound just like the
Mamur Zapt.”

Arrangements
for the return of the Holy Carpet were being finalized. A large street-map of
Cairo had been spread out on a table and the area between the Citadel and the
mosques of Sultan Hassan and Al Rifai’ya marked out with red ribbon. Nikos and
the Army saw eye to eye on these matters.

The Khédivial Pavilion was indicated by a
little green flag. Neither the Sirdar nor the Agent had pavilions on this
occasion, since this was a purely Egyptian affair. They would be guests of the
Khedive. However, Nikos had marked out a place for the band and thoughtfully
indicated in bright orange where the Army—the Egyptian Army— would be drawn up.
All was clear to the Army officers who were present and to John and Paul who
were looking at their watches and fretting.

The Return of the Holy Carpet was one of the
two great processions of the Cairo year. The other was the Departure of the
Carpet. The Carpet departed with the annual caravan of pilgrims and returned
from Mecca some months later, usually well after the pilgrims had returned, the
actual date depending less on position in the religious calendar than on how
far behind administrative arrangements had fallen.

It also depended on the desert tribes
between Mecca and the coast, who were still inclined to harass the pilgrimage
and had been particularly difficult this year; so much so that the Sirdar had
sent an escort of half of the Fourth Battalion, a troop of cavalry and two
machine-guns, not to mention the famous screw-gun battery which Lord Kitchener
had wanted to buy for the Boer War.

The Carpet, of course, was not a carpet. It was a piece of tapestry made to go round the Kaaba stone at Mecca. It was of
the stiffest possible black silk—black because that was the colour of the
Abbasid dynasty—and embroidered heavily with gold. Making it was a hereditary
privilege of a certain family, necessarily well to do; and a new one had to be
made every year, since the Khedive cut up the old one, or the part of it that was returned to him, to present pieces of it to great Mohammedan personages.

The
Carpet might, or might not, have been carried in the Mahmal, which was a
beautifully ornamented frame of wood with a pyramidal top, carried by a single
tall camel, which was afterwards exempted from any other labour for the rest of
its life. The camel brought the Mahmal all the way from the coast, entered
through the old gates of the city and then
proceeded
in triumph to the Citadel, where it would describe seven circles and be
received by the Khedive.

“Seven?”
said one of the officers incredulously. “Christ!”

“Can’t
you cut that down a bit?” asked another officer.

“Certainly
not!” said McPhee firmly. “Seven is what is prescribed.” McPhee took a great
interest in Arab ceremony.

“Seems
excessive to me,” one of the Army people said, “and damn dangerous, too.
All that milling about just in front of the Sirdar.”
“In
front of the Khedive,” said Nikos, who was a stickler for accuracy.

“It
is
a bit close,” said Paul.

“No,
it’s not,” said Owen. “The circles are described in the centre of the square.
The pavilion is set well back. The Khedive comes out to receive the Carpet.”

“Bit
dangerous for the Khedive, isn’t it?”

“He’s
got to kiss the Mahmal,” said Owen. “You can’t do that at a distance.”

“As
long as it’s him coming out and not the Sirdar,” said someone. “Where exactly
will the Sirdar be while all this is going on?” asked someone else.