The Mamur Zapt and the Return of the Carpet (22 page)

“For
Christ’s sake!” said Paul. “We’ve gone through all that.” “Left-hand side of
the Khedive’s chair, four paces left, half pace back,” intoned Owen. “The chair
will be marked.”

“How
will he connect up with his horse?” asked someone who had not spoken before.

“Horse?”
said Owen. “What bloody horse?”

“The
Sirdar always leads the Army off afterwards.”

“Can’t
he do that in a car?” asked Owen. “Does it have to be a horse?”

“Yes,”
said John. “I’m afraid so.”

“He
rather fancies himself on that bloody great white charger of his,” said Paul.

There
was a moment’s disapproving silence from the Army.

“Doesn’t
security become a matter for the Army at that point?” asked Owen hopefully.

“No,”
said John and Paul together.

“It’s
all part of the arrangements,” said John. “Anyway, what
are
the
arrangements for afterwards?”

“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.

CHAPTER 12

The
Khedive’s pavilion stood far down in the open space below the Citadel. From
there the ground sloped upwards, first to the Market of the Afternoon and then
to the Meidan Rumelah. After that it rose steeply and became the giant rock of
the Citadel itself. At the top of the rock were the massive towers and ramparts
of Saladin’s castle; and at the utmost top of the castle was the Mosque of
Mehemet Ali, with its obelisk and soaring dome. From that great dome, built
only a century before, a host of smaller minarets and domes descended in a
sweep like the curve of a scimitar to the two other great mosques which stood
left and right where the chief thoroughfare of the city, the Sharia Mohammed
Ali, came out into Citadel Square.

In the early morning sunshine the Mameluke
domes took on the colour of pearl and rose. Pageants were early in Egypt to
avoid the fierceness of the noonday sun, and the people had been gathering
since before six. Many of them had brought seats, not so much to sit on—the
ground would do for that—as to stand on when the procession went past. They
were kept well back from the Khedive’s pavilion by a fence of soldiers.
Whenever they encroached beyond the fence they were turned back by mounted
policemen on white horses.

The soldiers, too, had arrived early. First,
the foot soldiers of the Egyptian Army, in their sky-blue, with white spats and
scarlet tarbooshes.
Then the artillery with their horse-drawn
guns to fire the salute.
The guns were ranged in line, the horses
detached, and the crews set to preparing the pieces. Last
came
the cavalry, again in light blue, the staff conspicuous in white and gold.

Notables and foreigners arrived some time
after. A space had been roped off for their carriages not far from the
Khédivial Pavilion. Lesser notables stood in front of the pavilion, and there
was a sort of tribune for those members of the diplomatic corps who had not
been able to find an excuse for leaving Cairo that weekend. The pavilion itself
was filled with chairs for the dignitaries, and soon they began arriving. The
pashas had gold bands around their turbans, and among them, in robes of sacred
green, was the Sheikh el Bekri, the Descendant of the Prophet. There were
ministers and politicians and a number of officials in court dress. Among them,
too, was the British Agent, in morning dress, and the Sirdar, resplendent in
full dress uniform.

The Khedive himself did not arrive until the
last moment—indeed, after the last moment, for the ceremony was due to start at
nine and he did not arrive until nine-fifteen. The band played the Egyptian
anthem, the guns thundered out, and the Army stood at salute. A car dashed up
to the pavilion and the Khedive got out to be greeted by the Prime Minister,
dressed in a green sash, and countless other officials, all in vivid sashes of
one kind or another.

Immediately afterwards a burst of Oriental
kettle-drums and hautboys from the entrance of the square announced that the
procession was approaching.

At the head of the procession, nodding
gravely on its
camel,
was the Mahmal, a square tent
twelve feet high, of crimson and cloth-of-gold, with gold balls and green
tassels. Because of the nature of a camel’s gait it was very seldom upright,
but jogged jauntily along, surrounded by religious banners gorgeous with Arabic
texts. It was followed by a standard-bearer and five drum-beaters mounted on
fine camels with splendid trappings, the same band probably that had played
into Cairo every important pilgrim who had lately returned from Mecca. The
camels were led by men in picturesque dresses, who did not at all look as if
they had been to Mecca. They did not even look respectable. They looked as if
they were men who did odd jobs about the bazaars, hired for the occasion. Their
business, it was clear, was to lead the band camels, not to have been to Mecca.
There was also a jester, but he was a holy man and had been to Mecca.

Behind it was the escort, burned black by
the sun of the Arabian
desert
, incongruous in its
Britishness and with its modern artillery, marching with precision, competent,
necessary.

When the Mahmal came abreast of the
Khédivial Pavilion it went through various evolutions while it performed the
required seven circles. Then it advanced right up to the pavilion steps.

The Khedive came down the steps to receive
it.

Owen could almost hear the officers’ intake
of breath as a mass of people in brightly coloured dress swarmed around the
plump figure. But Owen was not watching them; his eyes were on the motley about
the camels.

His men did as they should and formed an
inconspicuous, informal screen between the enthusiastic crowd and the
officials, and after a few moments the Khedive turned back up the steps and
returned to his chair.

The procession resumed. The Mahmal nodded
away, appearing to toss on the sea of supporters which closed in uncontrollably
now on every side. With a final blaze of hautboys the camels disappeared.

The Khedive was already getting into his
car. The escort took up position. At the last moment Owen had been persuaded to
include a detachment of the Camel Corps, on the grounds that with their tall
cocks’ plumes, they were especially picturesque and the Khedive would love
them. He had wondered whether to station them in front of the Khedive’s car so
as to force the Khedive to slow down and keep within the wall of his escort.
That would be dangerous, however, should the Khedive need to make a quick
getaway, and he had settled for the rear. He was determined to have the more
mobile horses guarding the sides.

As soon as the Khedive’s party had moved off
there was a general rush for carriages. Owen saw Paul and the Agent waiting
quietly until the first burst had subsided and then making their way in the
opposite direction to where an open tourer had drawn up unobtrusively. They
stepped in and were gone.

Officers barked orders and the soldiers
began to form. Owen could not see the Sirdar at first but then picked him out.
He was already mounted and talking to a group of officers, similarly mounted.

The soldiers were ready to move off. The
Sirdar took up his position at the head of the column. There was a trumpet
call, a pause and then another trumpet call. The column moved off and turned up
the Mohammed Ali.

The sharia was broad and its lower end lined
with trees. Bunting was draped between the trees, and many of the small shops
were festooned with brightly coloured flags. The crowd here was less tumultuous
than the one which had threatened to overwhelm the Mahmal and at first the
applause was dutiful rather than enthusiastic. Few Cairenes, however, could
resist a spectacle and before long the crowded pavements were a-buzz with
delight at the tall soldiers.

Some of them were indeed very tall.
Following the triumphant conclusion of the Sirdar’s campaign, many Sudanese had
been recruited into the Army. You could tell them by their darker skin. They
were much taller and fitter than the average fellahin. In their splendid tarbooshes
they looked gigantic.

Police lined the route throughout, keeping
the onlookers well back from the marchers. McPhee had had to raid the forces
outside Cairo. For some of the country police it was their first visit to Cairo
and they were both impressed and bewildered. The police were spaced more widely
than McPhee would have liked. It was easy to break through the cordon—small
boys were forever doing so—though when anyone did they were soon chivvied back
by mounted police with rhinoceros-hide whips.

Owen began to move up the column, keeping
his horse well out to one side, unobtrusively close to the long line of
policemen.

He had chosen to ride because of the extra
mobility but it also gave him a better view. From where he sat he could see
over the heads of the policemen into the crowd. Occasionally he saw faces he
recognized: journalists, minor civil servants with their families, even
middling notables who had been at the Khedive’s Pavilion, picked out by their
sashes, ostensibly on their way home but reluctant to miss any of the fun. He
even thought he saw Guzman, but that was almost certainly a mistake.

He looked back down the Mohammed Ali. At the
far end was a dense cloud. The street had been heavily watered that morning but
already the sun was drying it out and the wheels of the gun carriages were
stirring the dust.

The whole of the column was in the Mohammed
Ali now and the front of the procession—he could just see the mounted
figures—was about half way along, approaching the point where the street
suddenly narrowed and ran between blocks of residential houses. Owen urged his
horse. It was here if anywhere that there might be trouble.

It was to a house in that part of the sharia
that the two men had moved when they left the room above the printer’s. They
had taken a room on the first floor with heavy latticed windows hanging over
the street. The edge of the procession would pass directly under them.

Georgiades would have all that well in hand.
In fact—Owen looked at his watch—he would already have acted.

The head of the procession was about level
with the house now. Owen stood up on his stirrups to see
better
.
Yes, it was almost exactly parallel. Nothing happened. It was now definitely
past.

He relaxed back into his saddle. A small boy
squeezed between a constable’s knees and ran out into the street. Scandalized,
the constable grabbed him and thrust him back into the crowd.

Owen had had to rein in. He paused now and
looked along the crowd. It was intent on the spectacle, relaxed, enjoying
itself. The sweet-sellers, sherbet-sellers, lemonade-sellers and
souvenir-hawkers were doing good business. A few youths were distributing
political leaflets. One of them seemed familiar. The boy turned and Owen saw
that it was Ahmed. He was thrusting leaflets into the hands of the onlookers.
They took them blindly, their eyes on the soldiers.

I
don’t think you’ll do a lot of trade today!
thought
Owen, and urged his horse on up the line.

And
then suddenly, right on top of him it seemed, there was an enormous bang.

For
a moment or two he could not quite take in what had happened. He became aware
that his horse was shying and twisting. Almost automatically he brought it back
under control. Then he grew conscious of the ringing in his ears and of that
distinctive after-echo and realized.

There
had been an explosion, a bomb had been thrown.
A grenade.

And
yet the procession was marching on as if nothing had happened.

An
acrid cloud of smoke drifted across him. He looked round, bewildered.

And
then he saw.

Behind
him, a little way down the sharia, a horse, one of the police horses, was on
its knees in a pool of blood. Its rider lay to one side in a crumpled heap, and
everywhere, all over the pavement, people were lying. Police were running
towards them, and children were crying, and the soldiers went on marching past.

Someone
was plucking at his stirrup. It was one of the policemen.

“I
saw him, effendi!” His eyes were round with shock. “I saw him! He threw
something!”

The
horse dropped its head and turned over on its side. Great shudders ran along
its flanks and each shudder widened the gap in its belly from which blood and
something else was pouring out. A leg seemed to have become detached from the
horse and lay at a strange angle as if it did not belong to its owner.

Owen
took a grip on himself.

“You
saw him?” he said.

The
constable was still clinging to his stirrup.

“Yes,
effendi,” the man almost pleaded.

“Who
was it?” Then, seeing the man was not taking it in, he gestured towards the
crowd.
“Which one?”

The
constable had to force himself to look.

“I
don’t know,” he said. And then: “He ran away. I saw him.”

McPhee
appeared, distressed, efficient.

“You
straighten things out here,” Owen said harshly. “I’ve got to see what’s
happening up front.”

McPhee
began at once to issue orders.

Owen
called to him.

“This
man says he saw who did it.” He indicated the constable beside him. “Get
someone after them if you can.”

“Right,”
said McPhee, and came across.

Owen
had to prise the constable’s fingers open to get him to release the stirrup.

As
he prepared to ride away, Owen caught sight of Ahmed. He was sitting among the
people on the pavement, his head on his knees, weeping.

Owen
called to one of the policemen.

“Get
that one!” he said, pointing.

He
did not wait to see what happened but touched his heels to his horse’s sides
and cantered up towards the front of the column.

It
was proceeding as if nothing had happened. The heels clipped in smartly, the
arms swung, the faces were as impassive as ever. And up here, seeing only what
they expected, the crowd, which obviously had heard the explosion, assumed that
it was somehow part of the procession and cheered and shouted and waved as
before.