The Mamur Zapt and the return of the Carpet

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.”

“It was just part of your personal campaign?”

“Yes.”

“What did Tademah think?”

Ahmed lowered his head. “They thought it was foolishness,” he said.

“They weren’t really interested?”

“No.”

“What were they interested in, then?”

Ahmed was mute.

“Nuri’s deal? With Abdul Murr?”

Again Ahmed was surprised.

“You knew?” “They wanted to frighten him off?”

“Yes,” said Ahmed. “They weren’t really interested in the girl, but when I told them what I planned, they said they would help.”

“So they gave you the gun?”

“Yes. They said it would serve a double purpose.”

“ ‘They,’ ” said Mahmoud. “You are always saying ‘they.’ Who are they? What are their names?”

“I daren’t tell,” said Ahmed. “They would kill me.”

“You realize,” said Mahmoud softly, “that if you instigated Mustafa to commit a crime, whether Mustafa planned to kill your father or not, then you bear responsibility?”

Ahmed went ashen.

“I did not mean…” he whispered.

“Whether you meant to or not,” said Mahmoud.

“Who are ‘they’?” asked Owen.

Ahmed licked his lips. “I dare not,” he said. “They would kill me.” “I will start you,” said Mahmoud. “Guzman. Farouz. Ismail. Abu el Mak.”

The last two were the men Georgiades had arrested.

He waited.

"I do not know any others,” Ahmed protested.

“Were there others?”

“I do not know,” said Ahmed wretchedly.

“Did you ever see any others?”

“No. The printer,” he remembered.

“That was all?”

“Yes, I swear.”

“Did you hear any other names mentioned?”

Ahmed thought hard.

“No,” he said. “I do not think so.”

It was possible. Some of the societies were very small. It was possible this was. That would account for its success in going undetected. “They would kill me,” said Ahmed.

“You will be safe,” said Mahmoud, “in prison.”

“If what you say is true,” said Owen, “we hold them.”

“Guzman is free,” said Ahmed.

Owen and Mahmoud went round the corner to a Turkish restaurant. As they approached it the smell of charcoal lay pleasantly on the night air.

Mahmoud said to Owen: “What will you do with him?” “After? Let him go. Hand him over to you. He’s no use to me.” Mahmoud was silent.

“Hand him over to you, I expect,” said Owen. “At any rate the Nuri part is solved. You will be able to write it up and get it to court.” “It will never get to court,” said Mahmoud. “It will be quietly dropped. Nuri will see to that.”

Now it was Owen’s turn to be silent.

“I’ll be put on another case tomorrow,” said Mahmoud. “Nuri will already be pulling strings.”

“What about Mustafa? Will they set him up instead?”

“They might not. They’ll probably just let him out after a time. Otherwise Ahmed might not go along with it.”

“To do him justice,” said Owen.

“He’s all right. Just young.”

“Want me to keep him? For a bit?”

"No,” said Mahmoud. “He’s learned his lesson.”

They walked a few steps further. The restaurant came into view. “On second thoughts,” said Mahmoud, “perhaps you’d better keep him. Until you’ve taken care of Guzman.”

“Suppose we do catch him,” said Georgiades, “what then?”

“What then?” said Owen. “I’ll bloody well see he’s tried and convicted, that’s what’s then!”

“You’ll be lucky,” said Georgiades.

“Lucky? The case is cast-iron.”

“If it’s ever heard.”

“What do you mean?”

“It depends on Ahmed,” said Georgiades. “Will he testify?” “He’d better!”

Georgiades eased himself on his chair. Although it was still very early in the morning the heat was intense.

“Is he going to be tried himself? Ahmed, I mean?”

“Mahmoud thinks not,” Owen conceded.

“There you are!” said Georgiades.

“He may not be tried,” said Owen, “but he can bloody well testify.”

“He’ll be out of the country. His father will pay for him to have a Jong vacation. Far away.”

Owen, who was hot, too, had not expected Georgiades to take this line.

“Are you saying we can’t make this stuck?” he said with irritation.

“I’m saying it will never get to court. Guzman is one of the Khedive's staff. He will look after him.”

“Even if he’s tried to blow up the Sirdar?”

“Especially if he’s tried to blow up the Sirdar. And that’s another thing: Guzman will be a popular hero. Have you thought of that? I le’s done what every Egyptian would like to do: blow up the Sirdar. Or at any rate try to. Bring him before a court and there would be a wave of popular feeling. I can just see it.”

Owen could see it, too.

“What are we going to do, then?” he said. “We can’t just let him go scot free.”

Georgiades shrugged.

“You could kick him out,” he said. “Encourage him to use his talents somewhere else.”

“Send him back to Turkey? That’s just what he wants!”

“Is it?”

Owen looked at him.

Georgiades spread his hands.

“Well,” he said. “Think! A Young Turk. Is that going to make him popular with the Sultan? Practising assassination. Do you think the Sultan would like that? It might be him next time. Secret society, revolutionary, conspirator. Wonderful! Just the chap the Sultan needs! I’ll tell you one thing. Guzman may be popular with the Egyptians. He might be popular with the Turks for all I know. But one thing is for sure: he won’t be very popular with the Sultan!”

When Georgiades had gone, Owen sat there thinking. Gradually his chair tipped back. He put his hands behind his head and closed his eyes. His feet found their way on to his desk. The chair tilted even more, so much so that Owen came to with a start. He pushed the chair back so that his shoulders rested against the wall. Feet went back on to desk. He shut his eyes again and blotted out everything except what he was thinking of.

He was still like this when Georgiades reappeared. He took one look at Owen and then padded away again without disturbing him.

And he was still like this one hour later when Nikos went in. Nikos, too, might have left him, but Nuri was waiting outside. This was an honour and Nikos was impressed.

“His Eminence, Nuri Pasha,” he announced grandly as he ushered Nuri into the room.

Nuri, quite recovered now, came forward with outstretched hand, all geniality.

“It is good of you to see me, Captain Owen,” he said. “I know you must be busy.”

Nikos looked at Owen reproachfully and then retired, leaving the door conveniently open, for the sake of coolness no doubt.

Nuri sat down on one of the hard wooden chairs which were all that Owen had. He placed his walking stick, a different one from the one Owen had seen previously, ivory-topped this time, between his knees and folded his hands over the top. The heavy torso and massive neck and head were thrust forward slightly in eager anticipation of Owen’s words and the face sympathetic, friendly, amused. The eyes were as shrewd and watchful as before.

Nuri came straight to the point.

“What shall I do about my foolish son, Captain Owen?”

Owen had half-expected this, both because it was the custom of the country and because he knew Nuri could never refrain from politicking.

“He has done wrong, I know, and must be punished for it. But,” said Nuri, “ as I am the only one who has suffered-”

“Mustafa?”

“Mustafa must be looked after,” Nuri acknowledged. “I will see to that. But apart from him-” He stopped. “Of course, there is the danger to the state. I recognize that. But somehow I do not see Ahmed as a major threat to that.”

He smiled, inviting Owen to join in. Owen, carefully, did not. Nuri registered the lack of response and changed the note.

“Besides,” he said sombrely, “it is, in part at least, my fault.” “Why?” asked Owen.

“I should have taken him more seriously. Though that is hard to do. Especially when his political ideas are so naive. He badly needs a lesson in realism.”

“This is it,” said Owen.

“Yes,” said Nuri, “but the lesson comes costly. No parent likes his child paying the price. Have you any children, Captain Owen?” “No,” said Owen. “I am not married.”

“Not even in India?”

“No.”

“Ah,” said Nuri, a little wistfully. “Then you will not know what it is like.”

“What do you want?” asked Owen.

“I do not want the charges to be pressed.”

“That is a matter for the Parquet.”

“Not entirely,” said Nuri, “and in any case I have seen to that. He is held by the Mamur Zapt.”

“He is held under security provisions.”

“Of course.” Nuri held up a hand. “I am not objecting to that. I, too, have an interest in security. What I was wondering, however, was whether Ahmed constituted such a threat that giving him a good scare would not suffice. He would have to leave the country, of course. He has been a nuisance to you and I would have to ensure that he was no longer a nuisance. I recognize that. But I think I could guarantee that to your satisfaction.”

“Where would you send him?”

“To Paris. To the Sorbonne. To study law.”

He caught Owen’s eye and grimaced.

“I know,” he said. “He hasn’t the brains. But he thinks he has, and I don’t want to be the one to undeceive him. Frankly,” he said, “I have not been altogether skilful in my relations with my son.”

“I’ll think about it,” said Owen.

Nuri stood up, beaming.

“That is all I ask,” he said, stretching out his hand. “It is good of you even to consider it. As Sir Eldon said only this morning, Ahmed is a damned nuisance.”

Owen took in with amusement the reference to the British Agent. Nuri believed in letting people know how the cards were stacked.

As Nuri went out he said: “You have met my daughter, I believe?” “Zeinab,” said Owen. “Yes.”

“I’m pleased about that,” said Nuri. “At least you won’t think that the whole family is imbecile.”

“So what do you want me to do?” asked Garvin.

“I’d like you to get a deportation order signed,” said Owen, “and handed to me for execution.”

“We don’t want anything to happen on the way to the docks,” Garvin warned.

“Not my style. I just want to make sure he gets on a particular boat. So that I can arrange a reception committee at the other end.” “He’ll smell a rat.”

“He won’t even know it’s me. They’ll be just ordinary officials.” “Not too ordinary. Otherwise he’ll get away.”

“He won’t get away.”

Garvin mused.

“This reception committee you’re organizing,” he said. “I don’t know that I go along with that sort of thing. Especially in a foreign country. Especially in a foreign country like Turkey.”

“I’m not organizing it myself,” Owen explained. “I’m just tipping off someone else so that they can organize it.”

“Friends?”

“The authorities. The Sultan.”

Garvin looked surprised. Then he understood.

“It may come unstuck,” he said. “There are plenty of Young Turk sympathizers in the police and among the Sultan’s own men. They may see it doesn’t happen.”

“I’ve thought of that, too. I think I know a way of getting a special word to the Sultan personally. After that it’s up to him. Entirely,” said Owen.

“That’s it, is it?” asked Garvin, looking at him. “You’re not involved in any other way?”

“Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“I shouldn’t hope to die,” said Garvin. “Someone might take you seriously.”

“I’m not involved in any other way.”

Garvin weighed the assurance dispassionately. Apparently he came to the conclusion either that Owen was speaking the truth or that it did not matter if he was not, for he said: “OK then. I’ll see what I can do.”

He shook the tiny bazaar bell on his desk and asked the orderly to bring him a form.

Owen was a little disquieted. He had not expected Garvin to envisage other possibilities. Having the law on their side, the English did not need to have recourse to such things, although Owen knew that most of the countries around them did. Perhaps it was just Garvin’s chilly way.

Garvin made out the form.

“I shall take this to Harry personally,” he said.

Harry was the adviser to the Interior Minister.

“The Minister himself has to sign it. Harry will get him to do that, but I can’t answer for its confidentiality afterwards. Not five minutes afterwards!”

“Let me make a phone call,” said Owen, “and I’ll be ready to move.”

Owen made his phone call. Garvin saw Harry and gave the deportation order into Owen’s own hands. The order was served immediately on a Guzman who for once was taken by surprise. A handful of picked men escorted him to the docks and put him on an Istanbul-bound steamer where he was placed at once in a locked cabin with a man, again picked, outside the door. And within an hour the steamer was nosing out into the Mediterranean.

Owen and Georgiades watched it go.

“Suleiman will be all right,” said Georgiades. “The problems will start at the other end.”

“They’ll be problems for Guzman,” said Owen.

When Owen got back to Cairo he called in Nuri to see him. That was twice in two days and Nikos was doubly impressed.

Nuri, however, was not surprised.

“It’s always best to move fast in these matters,” he said.

“How fast we move depends on you,” said Owen.

“Ah?”

Nuri settled himself back in the chair to hear the terms of the deal. “In things like this,” said Owen, “the pawns are not important.” “Just so,” said Nuri, “the Mustafas.”

“The Ahmeds.”

Nuri was a little surprised at the classification but saw that it had potential and nodded polite agreement.

“What matters,” said Owen, “are the persons moving the pawns.” Nuri looked at Owen quickly but said nothing. Perhaps he feared that this extension of the classification was directed at him.

“Take the attack on you, for instance,” said Owen. “Mustafa was only a tool. So was Ahmed. A more complex one, possibly, but still only a tool. He took some things on himself-”

“Foolishly.”

“Foolishly,” Owen agreed, “but generously. He wanted to put the world to rights-”

“He’s young,” said Nuri, but looked pleased.

“-but basically he was being used. It’s the people who were using him that I’m concerned with.”

“Yes?”

“I was wondering how you felt about Guzman.”

Nuri took his time about replying. Owen knew that he was figuring out all the angles.

“Guzman is a dangerous man,” he said eventually.

“Yes. Did you know how dangerous?”

Nuri shook his head.

“No,” he said. “He’s always been secretive. I knew he was fanatical and suspected he was extremist. But I did not imagine that he was so actively involved.”

“You worked with him?”

“Well,” said Nuri, “alongside him. We were never close.” “Rivals?”

“You could call it that.”

“He let Ahmed have the gun. Is that his way with rivals?”

Nuri was silent.

“I’m not saying he meant Mustafa to kill you,” said Owen, “but I don’t think he would have minded if he had.”

Nuri smiled wintrily.

“I think that is an accurate assessment,” he agreed.

“Why is that?” asked Owen. “Is he like that with everybody or has he got something particular against you?”

"Both,” said Nuri. “He is like that with everybody and he has something particular against me.”

“And you’re not going to tell me what that something particular is.” “No,” said Nuri. “I am not.”

They both laughed.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Owen, “because I think I know it already.” “Ah!” said Nuri, and laughed, but took it in.

“Your negotiations with Abdul Murr.”

Nuri said nothing; but Owen saw that the remark registered. “However,” he said, “ that is not my concern at the moment. What I want to know is this: is he going to try again? More seriously this time?”

“To kill me?” Nuri’s eyes rested thoughtfully on the ivory carving of his stick. “Possibly,” he acknowledged, looking up at Owen.

“I was wondering if it would be a good idea to take measures,” said Owen.

Nuri’s eyes met his unblinkingly.

“That could be arranged,” he said quietly.

Owen saw that Nuri had misunderstood him.

“Not that,” he said.

“Oh?”

“Guzman left the country this morning.”

“Really?” said Nuri, surprised. “Already? How disappointing!” “Not very,” said Owen. “We pushed him. We put him on a boat. The San Demetriou. It left Alexandria this morning.”

Nuri looked puzzled.

“Then-?”

“For Istanbul. He’s in a locked cabin and will stay there until he arrives.”

Nuri still looked puzzled.

“We thought the Sultan might like to know.”

Nuri’s face cleared.

“Ah!” he said. "I am beginning to understand.”

“Someone, of course, would need to let him know. Privately. And without going through too many people.”

"I understand now exactly,” said Nuri.

He rose to his feet and held out his hand.

“A pleasure!” he said. “A real pleasure!”

As he got to the door he looked back.

“And my stupid son?” he asked.

“What you were suggesting the other day,” said Owen, “sounds entirely reasonable.”

The next person to call on the Mamur Zapt was Fakhri.

He came at Owen’s request and was more than a little nervous. Owen, however, held out a welcoming hand.

“I’m hoping you might be able to help me,” he said.

“You want me to help you?” asked Fakhri.

“That’s right,” Owen agreed amiably.

Fakhri appeared even more nervous.

“I am, of course, at your service,” he said cautiously.

“I’d like an article placed,” said Owen, “somewhere where political people will read it.”

“What sort of article?”

“Oh, just a review of the current political scene. It would, however, refer in passing to attempts by Nuri Pasha to form an alliance with moderate elements in the Nationalist Party and say that such attempts showed every sign of succeeding.”

“Look,” said Fakhri, “if we’d wanted to publish an article like that we could have done so months ago.”

“I know,” said Owen.

“But we didn’t. And do you know why? Because of the harm it would do. It would play straight into the hands of extremists like el Gazzari and Jemal.”

“I know,” said Owen.

“You know?” said Fakhri, staring. “Then why do you want it? It would mean the end of Abdul Murr-of perhaps the last real chance of the Nationalists developing as a moderate Parliamentary party.”

“I know.”

‘‘Then why-?”

Fakhri stopped as realization dawned.

‘‘I see,” he said. “You don’t want a moderate Parliamentary party.” “Not a strong one.”

“You’d prefer the Nationalists to be in the hands of the extremists because that would mean they would be discredited.”

“And divided,” said Owen.

“So that the British could go on ruling.”

“The Khedive rules, we only advise.”

Fakhri swallowed. “I don’t like it,” he said.

“Why not?” asked Owen. “Other moderates will benefit if the Nationalists become extremist.”

“As you very well know,” said Fakhri bitterly, “we are just as divided.”

“This is your chance, then.”

“You may find it hard to believe this,” said Fakhri, “but I care more about seeing parliamentary democracy established in Egypt than I do about my own political career.”

“Very fine,” said Owen, “but not very realistic.”

Fakhri sat quiet.

“I am sorry,” he said at last, “but I cannot help you.”

“With the article? A pity. It won’t make any difference, you know. I shall find another way of placing it.”

“I would prefer not to be involved.”

“You’re already involved,” said Owen. “You involved yourself. Remember?”

“And this is the punishment?”

“Call it a warning,” said Owen.

“I’d rather go to prison,” said Fakhri with dignity.

“It would be a waste. A mere gesture.”

“And the Egyptians are prone to gestures. I still think it’s one I’d like to make.”

Owen let him go and Nikos showed him out. Afterwards, Georgiades came into the room.

“I like that little man,” said Georgiades, who had been listening outside. “What are you going to do with him?”

“Nothing.”

“The article?” “I’ll place it somewhere else.”

“How about al Liwa?” suggested Georgiades.

John rang.

“What’s all this? This chap Guzman getting away?”

“Not quite,” said Owen, and told him.

“That’s lovely,” said John happily. “The Sirdar will like that. He really will!”

Then Paul.

“The Khedive’s protested.”

“He has?”

“Your action is precipitate and unjustified. He says.”

“What did the Agent say?” asked Owen.

“That he was bloody lucky he didn’t find himself on the boat, too, since the Sirdar was inclined to be even more precipitate.”

They both laughed.

“Actually,” said Paul, “the Old Man thinks it’s neat. No fuss. No bother. Effective. Nice to have a Mamur Zapt who’s got a bit of touch, he said. No, he really did.”

The article appeared in a first-rate political weekly and was much read. Abdul Murr was discredited. The two extremist wings of the Nationalist Party turned on him and devoured the moderates. Afterwards, they turned on each other.

Nuri’s plans, of course, fell through. Those plans. Being Nuri, he soon had others.

Ahmed was sent on a long course of study to France.

Mustafa was discreetly released, completely bewildered by the whole affair and content that matters should rest in the capable hands of his wife. Her sister was duly delivered and looked after.

When the San Demetriou docked at Istanbul there was a reception committee for Guzman, and Owen rather lost touch with what happened after that.

He himself took Zeinab to the opera.