The Mamur Zapt and the return of the Carpet

CHAPTER 9

“You have offended the Sirdar,” said Garvin. “You have offended the Khedive. You have offended the Agent. And you’ve bloody offended me.”

He picked up a piece of paper from his desk.

“I’ve even had,” he said, “a letter of complaint from the Kadi about your desecrating religious property.”

He put the letter down.

“It takes some doing to offend all the powers of Egypt in the space of about two hours, but by God, Owen, you’ve done it. The Army, the Khedive, the Kadi- Not to mention me. And for what?” “We’ve got the grenades.”

“Not all of them. And you missed the man.”

“How was I to know it was Guzman’s house?” muttered Owen. “You could have asked,” said the pitiless Garvin. “The meanest beggar in the street outside would have told you. Instead, you went charging in. In fact, you spent the whole afternoon charging round, like a sort of lunatic McPhee. If I want a McPhee as Mamur Zapt,” said Garvin, “I’ll get a real one.”

This was proving even more uncomfortable than Owen had expected.

“But I don’t,” Garvin continued. “I really don’t. The Mamur Zapt isn’t supposed to work like that. He’s supposed to work behind the scenes, off-stage. Not front stage at the opera. The bloody comic opera!”

Owen felt this hit home. He sat there smarting but judged it best to keep quiet. Garvin obviously expected some reaction. When none came he was slightly off-put. His glare became half-hearted.

“It was a mistake, wasn’t it?” he said, still aggressively but with rather less vehemence. “Raiding that Syrian? I thought it would be. The trouble with a raid is that it either works or it doesn’t. If you don’t wrap everything up it kills off all the leads. I told you it would be better to put a man on the shop!”

If we’d done that, thought Owen, we would not have got the grenades.

Perhaps Garvin guessed what he was thinking, for the glare returned, defying Owen to make his objection.

Owen sat there impassively.

Satisfied, Garvin relaxed.

“It was my fault,” he said unexpectedly. “I shouldn’t have let you.” Now it was Owen who was off-put. He found himself wanting to demur.

Garvin was taking no notice, however. He was following his own train of thought.

“Maps!” he said suddenly. “Maps!”

“What?” said Owen, startled.

Garvin turned to him.

"Maps,” he said. “That’s what you need. You need to build up your own set of maps. The Mamur Zapt is different from the police,” he went on. “The police are interested in catching the criminal and punishing him. You’re not interested at all in seeing he gets punished, and not even interested, really, in him getting caught. What you’re interested in is seeing that certain things don’t happen. You may have to catch people, you may have to keep them in prison, but that’s all incidental. You may be able to do your job without it. In fact, it’s better if you do do your job without it. You’ve got to anticipate, to know in advance what’s going to happen and then to stop it. To do that you need information. Contacts. Maps.”

He looked at Owen.

“I shouldn’t have let you raid that Syrian, should I?” he said. “We should have used him to help you build up one of those maps. Syrian connections throughout the city. It would have been worth it.” “Even at the price of a box of grenades?”

“Even at the price of a box of grenades,” said Garvin seriously. He considered a moment. “At the price of something going wrong at the Carpet, though-” He broke off. “Well,” he said, “it’s never straightforward in this business.”

“Did I tell you,” he asked, “that the Old Man wants you to be in charge of security arrangements for the Carpet?”

“Still?”

Garvin smiled wintrily. “I would think so,” he said.

As Owen went out Garvin said: “The Carpet’s always a pig. There were riots all over Cairo when I was doing it.”

Owen knew the words were meant encouragingly.

Nikos came in, unusually agitated.

“There’s a woman to see you,” he said.

“What sort of woman?” asked Owen. “Do you want me to come out?”

It was rare for a woman to come alone to the Mamur Zapt’s offices, or, indeed, any other offices for that matter. Usually if a woman had business with an office she sent a man on her behalf or a male relative. In the few cases where she came herself she came accompanied. Occasionally, though, a countrywoman would come to see the Mamur Zapt with a petition. She would wait self-effacingly outside, not venturing to come in, hoping only to catch the Mamur Zapt as he went past. Owen had left strict instructions that if a woman was seen waiting like that then he was to be informed. He would go down to her as soon as he could.

“No,” said Nikos. He hesitated. Then he made up his mind. “I will bring her along to you.”

Owen sat back surprised. He had very few visits of that sort.

Nikos ushered in an elegant woman, dressed in Parisian black. She wore a short, European-style veil but had bound her hair in an expensive scarf so as to reduce the offence to Islamic susceptibilities.

Owen rose automatically from his desk. Nikos withdrew. The woman came further into the room and lifted her veil so that Owen could see her face. It was Nuri’s daughter, the one he had seen the day before, Zeinab.

“I wanted to see you,” she said. “I thought I could be of some use.”

Owen drew up a chair for her.

He felt unusually awkward.

For one thing, he had never before spoken to a young Egyptian woman alone. Arab Egyptian, that was. He had spoken to French Egyptians, Italian ones, Greek ones, but never previously to an Arab one. Even the Greek ones were pretty difficult to get to know. The Levantines were nearly as traditional as the Moslems where their women were concerned. Especially their daughters. Their wives were often restive and it was relatively easy to find a married woman with a taste for adventure. Their daughters, whether they had a taste or not, were seldom given the opportunity to indulge it. Young, single girls were kept as in purdah. And this was all the more true, of course, of

Arab ones. You simply never saw them. Very occasionally you might meet a very Europeanized one in the most advanced of circles, as, indeed, he had done, but even there they hardly ever detached themselves from the crowd. Your only chance was someone as Europeanized, independent, unconventional and strong-minded as Nuri’s daughter evidently was. If, of course, she was single.

For another thing, there was this unfortunate business of the harem. “I really must apologize," he began. “I had no idea you were-” And stopped.

“A member of the harem?” she finished for him icily. “I am not. Any more than you are one of Guzman’s eunuchs.”

There was a delighted intake of breath in the corridor. Owen wondered who was listening. Indeed, now he noticed it, there was such a silence along the corridor that probably everybody was listening.

He got up and shut the door. That made it almost unbearably hot, so he turned on the fan. That levitated the papers on his desk. He made a grab at them and weighted them down with a couple of files. Some of them, however, escaped on to the floor.

He felt he was being excessively clumsy; in all ways.

He looked up and found large dark eyes regarding him with definite amusement.

“Anyway,” he said firmly, pulling himself together, “I am sorry.” "It was a little unexpected,” she said.

“It was a mistake,” said Owen. He felt an urgent need to explain. “We were chasing a man. One of my people thought he came into the house.”

“Perhaps he did,” she said cooperatively. “It’s a favourite trick in Cairo for pickpockets being chased to run into the courtyard of an old house. There’s usually a second entrance. They run in one and then straight out the other.”

“My man’s experienced,” said Owen. “He ought to have looked out for that.”

“How could he? Unless he had run into the courtyard himself.” “He had to be careful. The other man had grenades.”

“Yes,” she said, “so I heard.”

It must be all over Cairo now, he thought bitterly.

There was a little silence. Then she said: “But that didn’t stop you from sending your men in.”

“No.”

“I was in the house,” she said. “So were others.”

“It was a risk,” he admitted.

“Yes,” she said. “It was. For us!”

“I had to take it,” said Owen.

The dark eyes regarded him soberly. Then, suddenly, again there was the flicker of amusement.

“How definite of you!” she said drily. “And how British!”

Owen began to feel like McPhee again.

“I am sorry,” he said again.

Then, feeling that he was being unnecessarily defensive: “You were in the house. I take it you were visiting?”

“Yes,” she said firmly. Relenting, she added: “I wasn’t really visiting them, but since I was in the house I thought I’d better call on them. It means so much to them when someone calls. They lead such boring lives.”

Owen wondered if she had been seeing Guzman and felt an unreasonable pang of jealousy.

“You remember that girl? Leila? The one my father made pregnant?”

“Mustafa’s wife’s — ”

“So that’s his name, is it?” she said. “Yes. That one. Well, my father is not such a monster as you think. He always looks after the women. He asked Guzman to take her in as a washerwoman. Guzman is an old friend of his. They worked together for the Khedive even before my father became a minister. I was coming to see how she was.”

“I thought she was staying with relatives?”

“She is. She comes in daily. They live not far from here. They are very poor. They couldn’t manage if she didn’t work.”

“Mustafa spoke of others providing. Did he mean your father?” “Surely not,” she said. “He would never accept anything from my father. That’s why my father had to be indirect.”

Sometimes it seemed to Owen that the whole of Egypt was bound together by intricate, interlinked systems of obligations, favours and rewards, subtle reciprocities, often to do with family, which connected people in unexpected ways. It was an immensely powerful moral system and if you lived in Egypt you could not escape its pressure. “This is my brother’s son,” Yussuf had said one day, presenting a grubby little urchin, and Owen had known that he was expected to do something about it. McPhee had found the boy a place in the stables and Yussuf’s standing with his family had been saved. For someone like Nuri the system’s imperatives probably counted for more than those of the courts.

“I wanted to see you,” said Zeinab, and then broke off.

“Yes?” said Owen, expecdng it to be something to do with her father.

“It’s about Aziz.”

“Aziz? The Syrian?”

“Yes. The one whose house you raided yesterday.”

“And rightly, too, this time,” said Owen. “That’s how we came upon the grenades.”

She waved a hand dismissively.

“You know him, too?”

“His wife. She is Raoul’s wife’s sister.”

Owen remembered Raoul from Fakhri’s party and felt another pang of jealousy. He wondered what, among this web of relationships, was the nature of Raoul’s relationship with Zeinab.

“She came to see Raoul this morning. She is very worried.”

She hesitated.

“And what precisely is she worried about?” asked Owen, remembering the face he had seen at the door.

“Aziz has been foolish,” Zeinab said. “She is worried that now you have found out about him you will pursue him. He will make another mistake and then you will put him in prison.”

If only it was so simple, thought Owen. Out loud he said: “If he deals in grenades he must expect to be in trouble.”

“He would like to stop. He only began it because he needed the money.”

“That’s what they all say.”

“Yes, but in his case it was different. When he first came to Cairo, about ten years ago, he worked very hard and built up a legitimate business. Then one of his partners suddenly pulled out leaving him with huge debts. He had young children and did not know where to turn. The chance came up, he took it, it helped-”

“And then he couldn’t stop,” said Owen.

“He can stop. He wants to stop. Only…”

“Only what?”

“He’s frightened.”

“Of me?”

“Not of you. His wife is frightened of you.”

“Thanks. What’s he frightened of?”

She looked at him carefully, as if making a judgement. The decision was reached.

“One of the clubs.”

“Which?” “I don’t know.”

Zeinab pushed back the edge of the scarf where the heat was making it stick to her face.

“I know only what she told me,” she said. ‘‘That’s why she came to see Raoul this morning.”

‘‘And Raoul told you to come and see me?”

“No,” she said. “Raoul does not know I am seeing you. She talked to me afterwards. I decided to come and see you.”

Owen considered.

“What would Raoul’s advice have been?”

“The usual, I expect,” she said. “To pay and keep quiet.”

“But you thought differently?”

“I am sorry for the woman,” she said. “She is expecting another child. She has had two miscarriages already.”

Owen was thinking about what Garvin had said. About building up his own map of Cairo.

“I might not pursue Aziz,” he said, “if Aziz could help me occasionally.”

Zeinab shook her head. “He’s too frightened.”

“No one would know.”

“He would still be too frightened.”

Owen nodded slowly. There was no need to press.

“I might leave him alone anyway,” he said. “He’s a small fish.” “Thank you.”

“Was that what you wanted?” he asked. “What you came for?” “Ye-es. And to give you the information.”

“About the club? It’s interesting,” he said, “but I need to know more. Its name, for instance. Would his wife know?”

“You are not to approach her!” she said fiercely. “She is frightened enough already.”

“Could you find out? She might talk to you.”

“You are asking a lot.”

“It was your father,” he pointed out. “And he might still be at risk.”

“She would be at risk if she gave you the name,” Zeinab said. “And she’s a very small fish indeed.”

“I would like to help, ” said Owen, “only you’ll have to tell me more.”

Zeinab sat thinking it over.

Owen was content to wait.

Eventually she made up her mind.

“I will ask her,” she said.

“Thank you.”

“But you are not to speak to her. Even if I fail. Promise me.”

“Very well,” said Owen. “I promise.”

The next morning he received a phone call from her. She had obtained the information he wanted, she said. Better still, she had arranged for him to meet the lady in question. He was to go to the Sharia el Mourani that evening about seven. There was a hairdresser’s, Steffano’s. It had an entrance from the rear, in the Sharia el Cheriffein. Next to. a perfume-seller’s. He was to go in that entrance. She would use the other one. Someone would be expecting him and would show him to a room.

“Steffano’s,” he said, “isn’t that…?”

“Yes,” she said. “That’s why it will be quite safe. Everyone uses it. They will think it just another assignation.”

One of the ways in which Cairene women evaded the constraints their husbands placed on them was through private appointments in apartments set aside for that purpose, usually above fashionable shops. Respectable ones allowed amateur partners only; but there was, too, a thriving trade in boys. Good-looking European boys were preferred. Steffano’s was not a house of that sort, but the fact that Owen was European would fit.

He found the entrance without difficulty. A Greek girl was waiting inside. She looked carefully at Owen and then led the way upstairs.

He was shown into a room with a deep, soft carpet, divans and exquisite brocade drapings over the walls. The girl motioned to him to sit down on one of the divans and then left the room.

Owen heard a faint noise behind him and looked round quickly. Half-concealed behind some of the draping was a door. It opened fully and Zeinab came into the room. Behind her he could just see the figure of another woman.

“My friend does not think it proper to be in the room with you alone,” Zeinab said, “or even with me present. She will stay in the room beyond and talk through the door.”

“How will I know it is the woman I think?” asked Owen.

Zeinab looked at him sharply.

“You will have to take my word,” she said. “I wouldn’t have gone to all this trouble if it was another woman.”

“Is she veiled?”

“She has her veil.” “I would like to see her face.”

“You can’t,” said Zeinab flatly.

“For a moment,” said Owen. “Through the doorway would be enough.”

Zeinab turned and spoke to the woman. There was some debate. Eventually she stood aside. The woman beyond timidly dropped her veil, just for an instant. It was enough. It was the woman Owen had seen in the Syrian’s house.

He indicated that he was satisfied. Zeinab walked across and sat down on the divan opposite him. If he talked directly to her he would have his back to the other woman. He compromised by sitting half round so that he could both address Zeinab and keep an eye on the door behind him. It was just a precaution.

“The society,” said Zeinab, “is Tademah.”

“How does she know?”

“She has seen a letter.”

“Signed Tademah?”

“Yes.”

“Addressed to her husband?”

“Yes.”

“What did the letter say?”

Zeinab looked over his shoulder. The woman began to speak, hesitantly and so softly that he could hardly hear her.

“It spoke of guns,” she said.

“Which your husband had? Or was going to get?”

“To get, I think.” The woman was almost inaudible.

“The note asked him to get them?”

“Yes,” the woman breathed.

“Did it say how the guns would be collected?”

“I do not remember.”

“Or how they would be paid for?”

“I do not remember.”

He heard a little sob.

“It does not matter,” he said. “But you are sure it was from Tademah?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “It said at the bottom.”

“Just Tademah? No other name?”

“No.”

After a moment she said: “It was at the top of the letter, too. It said, ‘Greetings from Tademah.’ ”

“Did it threaten your husband?” “Not this time.”

He could barely catch the words.

“There have been other letters?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know? Have you seen them?”

“No. My husband has spoken of them.”

“He is worried by them?”

“Yes,” she said, “yes.”

“Do they come often? How often do the letters come?”

There was a pause.

“I don’t know,” the woman said eventually. “He does not always tell me.”

“But he worries about them?”

“Yes,” she said, “always. He always worries about them. He does not sleep.”

“You know when he is worried,” Owen said. “How often is that? Once a month?”

“No,” she said. “Not as often. Three months, four months perhaps.”

“Have you ever seen any of the men?”

This time he could not hear the answer at all. He looked at Zeinab. She shook her head.

“Does your husband go out to meet them?”

Again he could not hear.

Zeinab shook her head again.

“You’d better stop,” she said.

“One question more,” said Owen. “How long has your husband been receiving these letters?”

This time he heard the answer clearly.

“For two years,” she said. “For two years we have had this badness with us. Two years of not sleeping at night, of worrying about my husband, about what we would do if… if…”

Zeinab stood up.

“You see?” she said.

The woman’s voice steadied.

“Of worrying about the children,” she said.

Owen stood up, too.

“Thank you,” he said to he woman behind him. “You have been very helpful. You have told me what I needed. I shall remember this and be a friend to you.”

Zeinab went into the room with the woman and shut the door behind her. Owen left by the way he had come.

He went home to change before going out to dinner. There was a message waiting for him. He rang the office at once.

“You’d better come in,” said Nikos. “There’s been an attack on Ahmed.”