The Mamur Zapt and the return of the Carpet

CHAPTER 1 1

“No,” said Fakhri. “No. It wasn’t like that at all.”

“You arranged the attack,” said Owen. “Are you telling us you didn’t?”

“I arranged the attack,” Fakhri admitted, “but I didn’t mean him to be hurt.”

“No?” said Mahmoud sceptically.

“It was a signal. That was all.”

“Who was the signal to?” asked Mahmoud.

“Nuri, of course.”

“What was it saying?”

“You know,” said Fakhri. He looked at them almost appealingly. “You know it all,” he said.

“Tell us.”

They were in Owen’s office. The others were in the cell below. Hamid had identified both the men and Fakhri as they entered the baths. When the men came out they had been followed. They had gone straight to a small square a kilometre or so away where the other men were waiting. Georgiades had arrested the lot. Now he was questioning them.

“I didn’t want to hurt the boy. Really. The men were told-” The brown eyes regarded them anxiously. “They didn’t make a mistake, did they?”

“Go on,’’ said Owen, refusing to be drawn.

“I wouldn’t want you to believe-”

He read the message in their faces and shrugged his shoulders. “Very well, then,” he said quietly. “Nuri had been meddling. He is always meddling. Trying to create new alliances. His own faction, which is very small now, and other moderates usually. This time he was after the Nationalists. He was trying to do a deal with Abdul Murr. He thought that if he could get Abdul Murr to go in with him the Khedive might see them as a possible government.”

“Never in a million years!” said Owen.

“He might!” Fakhri insisted. “If he thought he was securing a new base of popular support.”

“The Nationalists would never go along,” said Mahmoud.

“They would,” said Fakhri, “if they thought there was power at the end of it.”

“Jemal?” said Mahmoud sceptically. “El Gazzari?”

“Not them,” Fakhri conceded. “But others would. Abdul Murr.” “Never!”

“He might,” said Fakhri. “He’s got very fed up with Jemal and el Gazzari lately. Understandably,” he added.

“Fed up is one thing,” said Mahmoud. “Going in with a man like Nuri is another.”

“It’s not just that,” said Fakhri. “Abdul Murr is no fool. He thinks that if the Nationalists could once get into power and show they could govern, then the Khedive wouldn’t be able to do without them.”

It was plausible. Certainly Owen felt so, and probably Mahmoud felt so. Mahmoud, however, clearly had a distaste for the whole thing. It ran counter both to his strong dislike of Nuri and his equally strong sympathy for the Nationalists.

“Nuri in a Nationalist government?” he said. “I don’t believe it.” “It wouldn’t be a Nationalist government,” said Fakhri. “The Khedive won’t agree to that. It would have to be a coalition and Nuri would have to lead it.”

“Lead it!” cried Mahmoud.

“The Khedive won’t agree on any other terms,” said Fakhri. "That’s why Nuri is in such a strong position.”

“They won’t go along,” said Mahmoud.

“You’d be surprised!” said Fakhri.

There was a little silence. Owen could see Mahmoud struggling to come to terms with what Fakhri had said. He was still reluctant to accept it.

“You say these things, Fakhri,” he said, “but how real are they?” “Very real.”

“How real?”

“Real enough to worry all the other political groupings. Real enough,” said Fakhri, with a glance at Owen, “to worry the Mamur Zapt apparently. When I saw you taking an interest,” he said to Owen, “I guessed that the British suspected something.”

Owen let it pass. Sometimes there were dangers in being over-subtle.

He noticed Mahmoud look at him, however, and wondered if he would have some explaining to do.

“It could be a powerful combination,” he said, “the Nationalists and the Khedive.”

“That’s just it,” said Fakhri. “It worried us, too.”

“Us?”

“Everybody, really. There are various factions around the Khedive, rivals of Nuri. They don’t want it to happen. Then there are the Nationalists themselves. Plenty of them are opposed to it. Jemal and el Gazzari for a start. And then, of course,” said Fakhri, “there are moderate groups, like my own, who are worried about being left out in the cold.”

“And you were worried especially.”

“Not especially,” said Fakhri. “Why do you think that?”

“Because you did something about it.”

Fakhri was silent for a moment.

“Not especially,” he said again. “It was just that someone had to do something.”

“And that someone just happened to be you?” said Owen sceptically.

“Yes,” said Fakhri defiantly.

Owen let the pause drag on.

“So you decided,” he said at last, “to send Nuri a signal?”

“Yes. We thought that if we sent him a direct warning-”

“By killing Ahmed?”

“Killing?” Fakhri looked shaken. “No,” he said, “how could you think that? We wanted to give him a good thrashing. That was all.” “Why pick on Ahmed?”

“Because he’s Nuri’s son. Because Nuri loves him. Because Nuri has been using him as a go-between.”

He looked at Owen.

“I did try to tell you,” he said, almost reproachfully. “I’ve been trying to point you in his direction. I thought if you knew how far things had got, you might find a way of stopping it.”

“How far had they got?” asked Owen.

“Further than wp thought they would. Nuri is a cunning old devil. He seemed to be persuading Abdul Murr. It suddenly looked as if things were coming to a head. As if he might succeed.”

“Was that the point of Nuri’s visit to the al Liwa offices?”

“Yes. That was part of it, though the real fixing was to come later, in private. Anyway, we had to do something. I wanted to let Nuri know that we knew. So-” Fakhri shrugged. “I hired those men. They didn’t overdo it, did they?”

Again the sympathetic brown eyes regarded Owen anxiously. Again Owen did not reply. The longer Fakhri was kept on the hook the better.

“I am sorry,” said Fakhri softly. “It was just one of those things. Just politics.”

Even the coffee did not help. Sensing the mood that Owen was in, Yussuf entered silently, filled the mug and withdrew without saying a word. The shutters, which had been opened first thing to air the room, had long since been closed. Owen had been in for three hours already, and all the time he had been thinking about what Fakhri had said the evening before.

They had got nowhere, nowhere on anything really important. Ahmed’s thrashing, his and Nuri’s visit to al Liwa, what Nuri was up to, all this had been explained, and it did not seem to have advanced matters one little jot. The original attack on Nuri, the grenades, the Tademah connection, if there was a Tademah connection, they knew no more about now than they did before he and Mahmoud had gone to the hammam.

He had thought for a moment, the moment when Fakhri had revealed himself, that everything had suddenly tumbled into place. It had been a shock but once he had recovered he had felt that he had grasped the true pattern. The man behind had finally declared himself.

But it was not true. Fakhri was not the man behind, or if he was behind anything, it was only the most trivial parts of the pattern. At first in his fury Owen had thought Fakhri capable of anything. Now he had simmered down he realized that Fakhri was not really like that. The trouble was that Owen believed him. He believed what Fakhri had said the previous night. That Nuri was scheming along those lines was completely credible, knowing Nuri. That the Nationalists, or some of them, were tempted, was entirely likely, despite what Mahmoud might think. That the Khedive would play along, distinctly probable. That the other parties would be worried, certain. Even that Fakhri, who was definitely not a man without resource, would take it upon himself to do something about it.

And if he did decide to intervene, it was not at all unlikely that he would act in the way he said he had: choosing the gentler path of issuing a warning, picking his target with perception and ensuring that things did not go too far. No knives. Owen had noticed it himself.

The nub of it was that he did not believe Fakhri was a killer. He had only his feelings to go on, and he had already been deceived by Fakhri. Still, he stood by his feelings. He did not believe Fakhri was a killer.

But then, how did he know there was a killer involved? No one had been killed yet. The attempt on Nuri’s life had not succeeded. It had been bungled. If someone like Mustafa had been chosen to perform the actual act, that did not exactly argue for someone behind the scenes who really knew his business, a cold, calculating killer by proxy.

All he had to go on was the whiff of fear in the Cairo air. He smelt it himself.

Not just that. The grenades. They were what chilled him. If you went for grenades you meant business. In a crowded city especially. The attack on Nuri was one thing. At the end of the day it was not very important, and anyway he could leave that to Mahmoud.

But the grenades were quite another thing. And that he could not leave to anybody else. They were his pigeon. Now that he had been put in charge of arrangements for the Carpet, his pigeon only.

But then, were all these things related to each other anyway? They might all be separate, nothing to do with each other. The attack on Nuri, the grenades, Ahmed’s thrashing-they might all be entirely unconnected, just brought together in his mind because by chance they all came over his desk in the same week. The last of them, Ahmed’s thrashing, was almost certainly nothing to do with the other two. Perhaps the other two were not connected either. They were all separate. The only thing they had in common was that he had to solve them.

It wouldn’t do. He knew what was bothering him. The grenades. The Carpet. The only way he could set his mind at rest about the arrangements for the Carpet was by finding out who had those missing grenades: finding out and catching them. And the only lead he had to that was the Syrian, the gun and the attack on Nuri. And on that front he had made absolutely no progress at all.

As the morning wore on he became more and more conscious of the Return of the Carpet hanging over him like a heavy black cloud.

As soon as Mahmoud spoke, Owen knew that something was wrong.

“Are you going to be holding Fakhri?” Mahmoud asked, without preamble.

“Yes,” said Owen, surprised. “I think so.”

“On security grounds?”

“Yes,” said Owen. “Why?”

“I would challenge your decision. There seems no security issue. It is a straightforward criminal offence.”

“So?”

“So Fakhri should be transferred at once into the custody of the Parquet.”

Owen held the telephone away from his ear and looked at it. What was wrong with Mahmoud this morning?

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“Nothing’s the matter. It’s just that I would like Fakhri transferred at once, please.”

“Is this official?”

“What do you mean?” The voice sounded slightly puzzled.

“Are your bosses on to you or something?”

“No one is on to me at all,” said Mahmoud stiffly.

Owen found it hard to believe. Unless-unless something had happened to upset Mahmoud. Perhaps at their meeting yesterday. He racked his brains to think of what it could be. Something he had said? It was obviously only too easy to touch off the sensitive Mahmoud. But he was not aware of having said or done anything which could have this effect. Something Fakhri had said?

“I was thinking of questioning him again later today,” he said into the mouthpiece.

“If you will see that he’s sent round immediately,’’ said Mahmoud, “I will ensure that he is properly questioned.”

It was the “properly” that did it; that, and the lingering, rankling memory of the “amateur” remark earlier.

“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 Khedivial 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.

“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.