Mamur Zapt and the Return of the Carpet

Owen was not going to be provoked.

‘The Khedive has many valued friends and allies,’ he said evenly. ‘It is not easy to protect them all.’

‘Why should they need protection?’ said the Turk. ‘That is the question you have to ask.’

‘That is the question the Khedive has to ask,’ said Owen, counter-attacking.

The man gave a short bark of a laugh.

‘If he is not popular,’ he said, ‘then it is because he shares the unpopularity of the British.’

Owen drank up his coffee.

‘Ah,’ he said, ‘I am afraid that is a problem I cannot help you with.’ He stood up to go. ‘If you will excuse—’

‘The Khedive wants reports.’

‘Reports?’

‘Daily. On the progress you are making in tracking down Nuri Pasha’s killers.’

‘That is a matter for the Parquet.’

‘And the Mamur Zapt. Or so you said.’

‘Security aspects only.’

‘Security,’ said the Turk, ‘is what the Khedive is especially interested in.’

Owen pulled himself together.

‘If the Khedive would genuinely like reports,’ he said, ‘then he shall certainly have them.’

‘Send them to me,’ said Guzman. ‘Directly.’

‘Very well,’ said Owen. ‘I’ll see you get them directly from the Agent.’

‘The Khedive has spoken to the Agent. Directly to me. With a copy to the Agent.’

Owen found the Turk watching him closely. He put on a charming smile.

‘Of course,’ he said.

‘Good!’ said the Turk. ‘See to it.’ And walked out.

McPhee swore softly to himself.

‘See to it!’ he reported. ‘I’ll bloody see to him. Just wait till I get to Garvin!’

‘He’s very confident,’ said Owen. ‘He must have got it fixed already.’

‘I’ll bloody unfix it, then. Or Garvin will. We can’t have the Mamur Zapt reporting to the bloody Khedive or where the hell will we be?’

Owen was thinking.

‘Gorst must have agreed.’

‘The stupid bastard!’

There was little liking among the old hands for the liberal Gorst.

‘If he has agreed,’ said Owen, ‘Garvin will find it hard to get him to change his mind.’

‘Stupid bastard!’ said McPhee again. He got up. ‘I’ll go straight to Garvin.’

‘Don’t let it worry you too much,’ said Owen.

McPhee stopped and turned and opened his mouth.

‘If the Khedive wants reports,’ said Owen, ‘he can have them.’

He winked deliberately.

‘All the same,’ said McPhee, soothed, ‘it’s the principle—’

Walking back down the corridor Owen thought that it was doubly advisable that no students should get into Abdin Square.

‘Yes,’ said Mahmoud. ‘The Khedive has been on to us, too.’

They were sitting outside an Arab café in one of the small streets off the Place Bab el Khalk. The café was tiny, with one dark inner room in which several Arabs were sitting smoking from narghilehs, the traditional native water pipe, with its hose and water jar, too cumbersome to be carried around so hired out at cafés. Outside in the street was a solitary table drawn back into the shade of the wall. The café was midway between the Parquet and Owen’s office off the Bab el Khalk: on neutral ground.

‘Reports?’

Mahmoud nodded. ‘Daily.’

‘Why is he so worried?’ asked Owen.

Mahmoud shrugged. ‘Perhaps he’s scared. First Nuri, then him.’

‘There have been others,’ said Owen. ‘Why this sudden interest?’

‘He knows something that we don’t?’ offered Mahmoud.

‘If he does,’ said Owen, ‘he’s not going to tell us.’

‘He has his own people,’ said Mahmoud.

‘Guzman?’