The Mamur Zapt and the Return of the Carpet (23 page)

Georgiades
stepped out into the street.

“What’s
happened?” he said.

“Did
you get them?”

“Yes.”

“The grenades?”

“Two of them.”

“That
was the third, then,” said Owen.

“Anyone
hurt?”

“Yes.”

Georgiades
grimaced.

“It
was probably intended as a decoy,” he said, “to distract attention from what
was going to happen up this end.”

“You
got the men?” asked Owen again.

“Sure
thing,” Georgiades soothed him.
“Two men and a boy.”

“A boy?”

“A walad.
To run messages,
perhaps? Anyway, we’ve got them.” Owen cantered on.

Two
horses detached themselves from the front of the column. One of them turned
back to meet him. It was Brooker.

“What’s
gone wrong?” he said.

“Sirdar OK?’’

“Yes.”
Brooker looked at him. “Why shouldn’t he be?”

The
other horse was John’s.

“Christ,
Gareth!” he said. “What’s up?”

“Decoy—we
think. The main business was to happen up here.”
“Bloody hell.”

John
prepared to speed back to the Sirdar.

“We’ve
got them,” said Owen.
“The ones who were to do the business
up here.”

“The grenades?”

“All
three accounted for. That was one of them you heard.”

“The
others—”

“We’ve
got.
With their owners.”

“Thank
Christ for that, anyway.”

He
and Brooker rode back to the Sirdar.

The
procession was approaching the Bab el Khalk, where it would swing left into the
Sharia Ghane. The streets were wider here. There was less likelihood of an
attack. Owen watched for a moment and then cantered back the way he had come.

The
rear of the column was passing the dead horse now. Some of the horses shied a
little as they sensed the carcase.

The
pavement was clear. People were being helped into ambulances.

“No
one much hurt, actually,” said McPhee.
“Concussed, shocked,
but nothing more.
So far as we can tell. OK up front?”

“Yes.
All according to plan.”

“Up
front, yes,” said McPhee.

The
horse was still. The blood was dark with flies, and other flies were dense
about the entrails.

The
rider had been moved.

“What
about him?” said Owen, gesturing.

“Concussed.
Just, we think.
Alive, anyway.”

It
could have been a lot worse.

They
were enveloped in a great cloud of dust as the artillery went by. They emerged
coughing and choking.

“Did
Georgiades get the others?”

“Yes.”

“We’ve
got this silly bugger,” said McPhee, waving his hand, “if he had anything to do
with it.”

Ahmed
still sat on the ground, hunched up, his head buried in his arms. The thin
shoulders were shaking.

Owen
dismounted and walked across to him. Ahmed became aware of the boots and looked
up.

“I
never thought it would be like this!” he said, weeping.

“Like
what?” said
Owen.

Ahmed’s
eyes traveled out to where the horse was lying and then were quickly drawn away
again.

“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?”

CHAPTER 13

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.”

“Guzman?”

“Yes.”

“If you came late?”

“Yes.
They had nearly finished. Well, they had finished really. They were just
waiting for me.”

“You
couldn’t help being late.”

“No,”
said Ahmed. “I had run all the way.”

“Were
they angry?”

“No. They
just—sort of joked.” He flushed and looked down. “What were they talking about
when you arrived?”

“Nothing really.
They were just
waiting.”

“OK,”
said Owen. “So what did they say to you?”

“They
told me where to stand.”

“By Farouz?”

“Yes.”

“And
give out leaflets?”

“Yes.”

“That
was all?”

“Yes.”
Ahmed looked at him. “I swear it,” he said.

Owen
kept his face quite blank.

“And
Farouz,” he asked, “what was Farouz to do?”

“To
give out leaflets,” said Ahmed. “I thought …”

Owen
waited.

“Really!”
Ahmed insisted. He
seemed suddenly on the verge of tears. “He had a bag over his shoulder.
Like mine.
I thought—I thought—” He stopped.

“Yes?”
said Owen.

“That
he had leaflets in it,” said Ahmed faintly. “I wondered why he wasn’t giving
them to people. I thought perhaps he was saving them to throw before the soldiers.”

His
voice faded away and came to a stop. Owen was beginning to think he had stopped
for good when he started again.

“He
didn’t throw,” Ahmed said. “Not for a long time. I kept wondering why.”

Again
the voice faded.

Owen
let the silence drag on for some time before he prompted. “But then he did
throw.”

“Yes,”
said Ahmed.

“You
saw?”

“He
put his hand in the bag and took something out. I couldn’t see. The crowd was
very thick. He tried to throw, but the crowd—he was all hemmed in. It went up
in the air.
Not very far.”

Tears
began to run down his cheeks.

“As
Allah is my witness,” he whispered, “I did not know.”

Owen
waited for him to say more. When he did not, he said: “Let Allah
be
your witness still: surely you knew what these men would
do?”

Ahmed
shook his head decisively.

“No,”
he said. “No. No.”

“You
knew they were Tademah.”

There
was a long silence.

“Yes,”
said Ahmed at last. “I knew.”

At
this hour in the evening the office was completely quiet. There were a couple
of orderlies at the end of the corridor and occasionally Owen could hear their
low voices. The constable who had brought Ahmed up was probably with them. The
only other noise was the buzzing of insects around the lamp.

Owen
got up, walked across the room and poured himself a cup of water from the large
earthenware jug standing in the window where the night air would cool it. All
the offices had water. Yussuf refilled the jugs every morning. At this time of year,
when Cairo was so hot, it was necessary.

He
poured out a cup for Mahmoud, and then another for Ahmed, which Ahmed took
without looking up.

“When
did you first learn they were Tademah?” he asked, and then, as Ahmed did not
reply, “At once, or later?”

Ahmed’s
lips tightened.

“At once?”

There was a
half-nod, suppressed.

“When you
got back from Turkey?”

This time
Ahmed looked up in surprise. “Yes,” he said. “How did you know?”

“You were
given someone to contact?”

Again
the half-nod.

“Guzman?”

The shake
of the head was definite.

“Who,
then?”

Ahmed made
no reply.

“Farouz?”

No
indication. He had obviously made up his mind to say no more. Owen sighed. He
would have to work harder.

“You knew
they were Tademah,” he said. “Are you saying you didn’t know they would kill?”

Ahmed’s
lips remained tightly compressed.

“Not even,”
said Mahmoud, coming into the conversation for the first time, “when they
ordered you to kill your father?”

Ahmed
looked up thunderstruck.

“No,” he
said. “No. How could you think—
It
wasn’t like that.”
“Wasn’t it?” said Mahmoud. “What was it like, then?”

He pulled
his chair forward so that he was confronting Ahmed. Owen moved a little to one
side to let him take over.

Ahmed
started to say something, stopped, looked from one of them to the other and
then said: “It wasn’t like that.”

“You heard
Mustafa at the meeting.”

“Yes, but—”

“You spoke
to him afterwards.”

“Yes—”

“You gave
him hashish.
Too much.
More than you were supposed
to.”

“No—”

“You found
him a gun. They gave it you.”

This time
Ahmed was silent.

“And you
gave it to him.”

Mahmoud
paused deliberately and then followed up with concentrated ferocity.

“To
kill your father.”

“No,” said
Ahmed. “No.”

Mahmoud sat
back in his chair but did not relax the pressure. “Yes,” he said. “Yes.”

“It’s
not true!”

“All
those things are true,” said Mahmoud. “I’ve checked them.” “Yes, but—”

“Are
you saying they’re not?”

“They’re
true,” said Ahmed, almost in a shout, “but not—”

“Not
what?”

“Not
the last.”

“No?”
said Mahmoud disbelievingly.

“It
was to frighten him!” cried Ahmed. “That was all. I swear it!” “Mustafa does
not say so.”

“I
told him!” said Ahmed, weeping. “I told him!”

“What
did you tell him?”

“I
told him it was to frighten only. That it would be wrong to kill. It was right
to punish Nuri for what he had done, but not to commit another wrong! I told
him. I swear it!”

“And
Tademah,” said Owen sceptically, “did they want to punish him, too?”

“No,”
said Ahmed. “That was different.”

“What
did they want?”

Ahmed
was silent.

“Money?”

“No,”
said Ahmed. “Not money.”

“There
was a note.”

“I
wrote that,” said Ahmed, surprisingly.

“You
wrote it?”

“Yes.
To frighten Nuri.
To make him think Tademah would
avenge.”

“Avenge?
Denshawai?”

“No,
no,” said Ahmed.
“The girl.
Mustafa.”