The Mamur Zapt and the return of the Carpet

CHAPTER 7

“It’s got to be protection,” said Georgiades and Nikos together. “He’s a rich man,” said Georgiades.

“A natural target,” Nikos concurred.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if several of the clubs were on to him,” said Georgiades.

“They are,” said Owen. “I’ve seen their letters.”

“There you are, then.”

“And checked them out.”

“You got nothing?”

“Nothing.”

“Did you check the right ones?” asked Georgiades.

“I checked the ones I was given,” said Owen, and stopped. “Given by Nuri’s secretary,” he said. “Ahmed.”

“Yes,” said Nikos, “well…”

“It wouldn’t have made any difference,” said Georgiades. “He wouldn’t have given it you, anyway. And, sure as hell, he won’t give it to you now.”

“Nuri must know,” said Owen.

“Do you think he would tell, though?”

“He told me about the other ones.”

“Did he?” asked Nikos.

Owen shrugged. “He made no difficulty about showing me the letters.”

“Some of them.”

“Did he tell you whether he’d paid them off?” asked Georgiades. “No,” said Owen. “He rather gave me the impression he disregarded them.”

“He would,” said Nikos.

“Do you think he pays?”

“Of course,” said Nikos.

“Invariably,” said Georgiades.

“Everybody does,” said Nikos.

“Then why did they try to kill him?”

“Did they try to kill him?” asked Georgiades.

Owen looked at him. “Are you suggesting they didn’t?” Georgiades spread his hands.

“Try this,” he said, “for size. He didn’t respond at once. So they tried to frighten him.”

“Mustafa tried to kill him.”

“It went wrong,” said Georgiades.

“Why did it go wrong?” asked Nikos.

“Because they used that moron Ahmed as a go-between. He set it up wrongly.”

“Ahmed would try to extort money from his own father?” asked Owen.

Georgiades spread his hands again, palms up, open as the Cairo day. “Why not?” he said. “Better than trying to kill him.”

Owen frowned. “It makes sense,” he said. “Some sense. Neither you nor Zeinab thought he was of the stuff that killers are made of.” “Who is this Zeinab?” asked Nikos.

“A girl,” Georgiades told him. “He’s been doing some research of his own.”

“He’s been writing some memos of his own, too,” said Nikos, still unforgiving.

“But there remains the difficulty,” said Owen, disregarding them, “that the societies, or most of them, are professional and Ahmed is a bungling amateur. Why does a professional use an amateur?” “Because he’s Nuri’s son?” offered Nikos.

“I still don’t see-”

“It adds to the pleasure,” said Nikos. “Their pleasure. To use the son against the father,” he explained patiently.

“Now you’ve shocked him, ” said Georgiades to Nikos. “Anyway, I can think of another explanation.”

“What’s that?”

“They wanted to give him something to do. Always hanging around. Get him out of their hair.”

“I prefer that explanation,” Owen said to Nikos.

Nikos smiled, worldly-wise.

“We’re still left with the old question, though,” said Owen. “Who’s ‘they’?”

“We know the answer now, don’t we?” asked Georgiades.

“Do we?”

“The ones Nuri and Ahmed went to see at al Liwa. ”

But that was strange. For the person Nuri and Ahmed had talked to at al Liwa, they later learned from their agent, was Abdul Murr.

Much to Owen’s surprise, for he had neither expected nor intended the memo to have such an effect, there were three other responses besides Guzman’s to the memo that day.

The next came at lunch-time. Owen had gone as usual to the club and as he was going in to the dining-room someone hailed him through the open door of the bar.

It was one of the Consul-General’s bright young men, a personal friend.

“Hello, Gareth,” he said. “Can I catch you for a minute?”

He led Owen out on to the verandah and they sat down at a table where they were unlikely to be disturbed.

“It’s about that memo of yours,” he said, “the one about lapses in military security.”

“Look, Paul-” Owen began hastily.

“The Old Man’s concerned. He had the SPG in first thing this morning. Told him a thing or two. And not before time, I must say! The Army behaves as if it’s on a bloody island of its own. Has its own procedures, won’t talk to anyone else, won’t even listen to anyone else. Thinks it knows it all and in reality knows bloody nothing! The Egyptians mightn’t be here at all as far as it’s concerned. And much the same goes for the Civil Branch. We might as well not exist. The Army goes clumping in with its bloody great big boots. Half our time is spent trying to make up for the damage it’s already bloody caused and the other half trying to anticipate what it’s going to cock up next. Liaison-you talk about liaison in your mem-Jesus! they can’t even spell the word!”

“Some of them particularly,” said Owen, pleased.

“You’re dead right! Military Security in particular. Mind you, you get all the dummos in that. A fine pig’s ear they’ve been making of things! Supplying arms and ammunition to half the bloody population. And making a few bob out of it on the side, I’ll bet. Those bloody Army storesmen are about as straight as a corkscrew-an implement with which they are all too familiar.”

“Now, now, Paul,” said Owen. “They drink beer.”

“You’re bloody right they do! No wonder the place is a desert. Anything liquid they bloody consume.”

“The trouble is,” said Owen, “the Sirdar will never do anything.”

“Oh yes he will. This time. The Agent was on to him directly. He’s at risk, too. Great minds think alike for once.”

“You reckon the memo might have some effect?”

“It already has. Sirdar’s already kicked some people up the ass.” “He has?” said Owen happily.

“He certainly has.”

Paul leaned forward and spoke a trifle more quietly but just as vehemently.

“And with bloody good reason,” he said. “Because do you know what came out? The Old Man demanded to know if anything had been stolen recently. The SPG had to tell him. And-can you believe it? It turned out that a box of grenades had vanished from Kantara barracks only last Tuesday! Grenades! A box! Jesus!”

“Kantara?” said Owen. “That’s interesting.”

“Is it? Well, perhaps it is to you. I must say, Gareth, they’re pretty impressed with you. Timely prescience, the Agent called it. Even the Sirdar thought it was damn good intelligence work.”

“Well, there you are,” said Owen modestly.

“But what interests me, ” said Paul, “was that it was a whole bloody box. Could cause absolute havoc if they start chucking a few of those around. And it’s just when we’ve got all the festivals coming up! We’ve got the Carpet next week and the place will be stiff with notables all hanging around for someone to take a pot shot at. Even the Khedive has been persuaded to come to receive the plaudits of his loyal and appreciative subjects. And I’m organizing our side! Christ!” “The Agent?”

“And the Sirdar!”

“McPhee’s very good,” said Owen.

“He’ll have to be,” said Paul gloomily, “if the Army is issuing arms to the whole population of Egypt.”

“Is this real?” asked Garvin.

He had an unfortunate way of going to the heart of things.

“I am afraid it is, sir,” said Owen, straightforward and thanking his lucky stars for the conversation at lunch-time. “A box of grenades went missing from Kantara only this week.”

“I know,” said Garvin. “The Sirdar told me.” He still looked sceptical. “I must say I was a little surprised at your memo. I hadn’t noticed any build-up. Still, I dare say you rely on information which does not come through in the ordinary way.”

He looked down at the papers in front of him. Garvin’s distaste for paper-pushing was well known.

“That’s right, sir,” said Owen immediately. He felt he was sounding too much like McPhee. “And a lot of it of very dubious quality. But when it all points in one direction-”

“And this did?”

“Enough to risk a judgement,” said Owen.

Surprisingly, Garvin seemed satisfied.

“Well,” he said, “it seems to have been a good judgement. Both the Agent and the Sirdar are pleased with you. And that doesn’t happen often.”

One of the reasons for that, Owen felt like saying, was that neither of them was particularly anxious to hear about the Mamur Zapt’s activities; and Garvin usually thought it politic not to enlighten them.

"The only trouble is,” said Garvin, “that now they’ll expect you to do something.”

"I’ve outlined several things in my memo-” Owen began.

Garvin brushed this aside.

“About the grenades,” he said.

The conversation was beginning to take an unprofitable direction.

“Isn’t that rather Military Security’s pigeon?” Owen asked.

“Not any longer. The grenades are out of the camp, aren’t they?”

Owen was forced to admit that this was so.

“They’ll have to give me some information,” he said.

“They will. This time.”

“We’d never even have heard about the grenades if it had not been for my memo,” he said, still hoping to deflect Garvin back to safer paths.

“Probably not,” Garvin agreed cheerfully.

“Still,” he said, “with your contacts- You must have had something to go on in writing your memo.”

The scepticism had definitely returned.

“Of course,” Owen agreed hastily. “Of course.”

“However,” he went on after a moment, “nothing on this, I’m afraid.”

“It will all fit in,” said Garvin, relaxed. “Never underrate your sources.” It was a favourite maxim of his.

“No,” said Owen.

A suffragi brought in some papers for Garvin to sign. He read them carefully and signed deliberately. Although he had been to Cambridge he always gave the impression that writing came hard to him.

“All I’ve got to go on at the moment,” said Owen, “is that they were taken from Kantara. I’m interested in Kantara for another reason. That’s where the gun came from which was used against Nuri Pasha.”

He told Garvin about the sergeant. Garvin was not very concerned.

“Probably happening all the time,” he said. “They probably all do it.”

“And they all know where to take it to,” said Owen.

“Yes,” Garvin admitted. “There is that.”

“Military Security haven’t done anything about that angle,” said Owen, still hoping.

“Nor have we,” said Garvin. “You’d better start.”

Owen returned unhappily to his room. This did not appear to be working out as he had hoped.

There was a message on his desk to ring one of the Sirdar’s aides.

“Hello, John,” he said.

“Gareth? That you? Thank goodness for that. I’ve got to go out this evening-the Sirdar’s holding a reception-and I wanted to catch you first. It’s about that memo.”

“Yes?” said Owen, warily now.

“What’s going on?”

“I’m trying to shake that bugger, Brooker.”

“Reasonable. He needs shaking. But why bring the whole firmament down as well?”

“Have you got caught up in it?” asked Owen. “Sorry if you have.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” said the other. “I’m not directly involved. The thing is, though, that I’ve been talking to Paul, and he’s reminded me that we’ve got this blasted Carpet thing on next week. I’ve got to be holding the Sirdar's hand at the time and I don’t want to be fending off grenades while I’m doing it.”

“You’ve got the other hand free,” said Owen.

“Thank you. Oh thank you.”

“It’ll be all right,” said Owen. “McPhee’s quite sound.”

“He’s thick as a post. And erratic as well.”

“He’s OK at this sort of thing. Anyway, we’ll double up security all round.”

“The Sirdar thinks something extra is needed.”

“Such as?”

“Don’t know. You’re the one who’s supposed to have ideas on things like that. The Sirdar thinks you’re smart.” “I am, I am.”

“He doesn’t want just a routine operation this time. I must say I’m right with him.”

“I’ll speak to McPhee.”

“You’re the one in charge.”

“No, I’m not. I’m sort of in the background,” Owen explained. “Not this time. Haven’t you heard?”

Owen’s heart began to sink.

“No,” he said. “Tell me.”

“Sorry to be the one to break the news. Thought it would have got through by now.”

“It hasn’t.”

“Well, the Sirdar wanted security augmented. He offered the Army. The Agent said no thanks. Wisely. The Sirdar said this was a special situation. The police couldn’t be expected to cope with terrorism. The Agent thought there was something in that. They decided that what was needed was someone who knew about that sort of thing. You. Congratulations.”

“Christ!” said Owen.

“Help me catch the grenades, then?”

“I’ll throw the bloody grenades,” said Owen.

John roared with laughter.

“At any rate,” he said, “you’ll be spared the assistance of Military Security. Unless you want it. I offer you Brooker.”

“That stupid bastard! It’s all his fault,” said Owen unfairly.

“If he gets in your hair anymore,” John offered, “tell me. I’ll get him posted to Equatoria.”

“Those grenades were taken from Kantara.”

“Where that sergeant was?” He whistled. “Pity you couldn’t squeeze something out of him. He’s coming out today, you know.” “Is he? The lucky bastard.”

“He’ll be celebrating tonight. And every night for the next week, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“He won’t talk now.”

“No? Couldn’t you frighten him somehow?”

Owen suddenly had an idea.

To the north of the Ezbekiyeh Gardens were the streets of ill repute. The chief of these was the Sharia Wagh el Birket, one side of which was taken up by the apartments of the wealthier courtesans. The apartments rose in tiers over the street, each with its balcony, over which its occupants hung in negligees of virgin white.

The opposite side of the street was arcaded and in the arches were little cafes where strong liquor was sold. The customers sat at tables on the pavement, smoking and drinking, and looking across at the balconies opposite. From time to time one would make up his mind and cross the street.

At the far end of the street the cafes gave way to houses. Unlike the ones opposite, they were dark and shuttered. To enter, and many people did, you knocked on a small door and waited to be admitted.

It was to one of these that the sergeant had gone, already reeling from the liquor he had previously consumed. Georgiades had an informant inside who reported regularly on the sergeant’s progress, which was from drunk to fighting drunk to maudlin to blind drunk and finally to stupor. During the evening, in the intervals between drinking, he had relieved the needs of his flesh with the help of willing assistants, who had even more willingly relieved him of coin, wallet, watch and other valuables.

“Did you get his belt?” asked Owen.

Georgiades held up a standard military belt.

“They did! Good!” said Owen with satisfaction.

Soldiers often sold their belts for drink. Since belts were military equipment they could then be charged with a different set of offences under military law.

He took the belt and inspected it almost as a matter of course. It was an offence to file the edges and point of the buckle; the belt made a nasty weapon in a brawl. Officers were required to check belts regularly. Owen looked to see if there was evidence of filing. There was.

“We’ll keep that,” he said to Georgiades.

He might be able to use it later.

Georgiades put the belt on under his trousers.

“When do you want to go in?” he asked.

Owen checked his watch. It was not long after two in the morning. The street was still quite busy. The houris were no longer on the balconies but busy inside. However, customers were still coming and going. Small groups of scarlet Tommies twined together staggered down the street singing drunkenly. When they got past the more selective establishments hands would very soon pull them into alleyways. As well, however, there were the usual Cairene clients; too many of them.

“We’ll wait,” Owen said.

By three the street was empty. The last Tommies had been swallowed up. The traffic now was out of the houses and not into them. The balconies were empty. The pimps were gone.

Owen signed with his hand.

Georgiades went up to the door and knocked upon it. A little shutter opened at eye level. Apparently Georgiades satisfied scrutiny, for the door was opened a crack. Someone big was standing inside. Owen saw Georgiades look up at him as he was talking. The door would be on a chain. It was easier to get it right open.

Owen saw some money change hands.

There was the sound of the chain being taken off. Georgiades stepped inside. A man fell suddenly against the door. One of the big Sudanis with Owen pulled him outside and hit him with his truncheon. Georgiades was holding the door open with his shoulders. The other Sudanis piled in.

Owen stepped in after them. A man was lying by the door dazed and holding his head. Two of the Sudanis were grappling with a huge Berberine. As Owen entered he saw the Berberine subside.

Georgiades had pushed on ahead. They were in a small, dark hall at the end of which was a door. He flung the door open. Beyond it was a large sunken room with couches and divans on which people were lying in various states of undress. There were glasses and bottles on the floor and one or two of the men were smoking from nargilehs.

A woman sprang up. She was wearing a long purple dress and her face was heavily made up. She called something and two men came out of an inner room holding thick sticks with spikes on them. Georgiades showed them his gun and they stopped. A Sudani hit one of the men across the arm with his truncheon. Then there was a crack and the spiked stick fell to the floor. The man doubled up, holding his arm. The other man ran off. The Sudani followed him.

Some of the people on the couches started getting up.

“Stay where you are!” Georgiades commanded.

He looked round the room. The sergeant wasn’t there.

“Upstairs!” he said, and nodded to the Sudanis.

The madam advanced on him, her eyes blazing.

“What is this?” she said. “Who are you?”

Georgiades ignored her.

She caught one of the Sudanis as he went by.

“Who is this?” she hissed.

“The Mamur Zapt,” said the man, and went out through the door.

The woman saw Owen.

“Vous etes le Mamur Zapt?”

“Oui, madame. ”

“Qu ’ est ce que vous faites ici?” she demanded, and launched on a bitter tirade. Owen pushed her away.

The people on the couches sat frozen. One of the girls began to cry.

Georgiades came in.

“He’s upstairs,” he said.

Owen followed him. There was a small landing at the top of the stairs which gave on to a series of rooms. Georgiades went into one of these.

There was a large bed with no covers. On it were two women, one black, one white, both naked, and the sergeant, dressed only in a shirt. He was trying to sit up.

“What the hell’s this?” he said thickly.

Georgiades looked at Owen. Owen nodded.

“Get the cuffs on him,” he said.

A big Sudani yanked the sergeant off the bed in a single movement. The sergeant swore and stood swaying. Georgiades snapped the cuffs on. The sergeant looked at them, bewildered. He had difficulty in focusing his eyes.

One of the girls gestured at his trousers, which had been flung over a chair.

“Take too long,” said Georgiades.

The girl shrugged, curled herself up and lay there watching.

The Sudanis started hustling the sergeant out. As they got him to the door he suddenly bent over and vomited.

They had to wait while he leaned against the door post groaning and retching.

The madam came up the stairs.

“I will complain,” she said. “You have no right.”

Her eyes took in the sergeant.

“Pig!” she said. “Cochon.”

In one of the rooms off the landing a woman cried out.

The sergeant brought himself upright. His eyes suddenly focused on Owen.

“Seen you before,” he muttered.

One of the Sudanis pulled at him. The sergeant shook him off.

“Who the hell are you?” he said. “Seen you before.”

Two Sudanis got a grip on him and began to drag him down the stairs.

“Mon dieu!” said the madam. “C’est affreux!” She tried to intercept Owen. “I will tell the consul,” she said. “You cannot do this.”

The sergeant collapsed at the bottom of the stairs, white-faced and groaning.

“Take him out!” said Georgiades.

One of the Sudanis caught hold of the sergeant by the collar and tried to haul him upright. The collar tore and the sergeant fell back. Another Sudani picked him up by the armpits and propped him against the stairs. The sergeant looked about him, confused.

“Seen you before,” he said.

The Sudanis pulled him towards the door. Half way across the room he was sick again.

“Cochon! Cochon!” the madam cried.

A grey-haired man came in through the door. He was wearing a silk dressing-gown and had plainly just got out of bed.

“I protest!” he said. “These are Syrian citizens!”

“This one?” asked Georgiades, pointing to the sergeant.

“That one, too,” said the grey-haired man.

"He’s a British soldier,” said Georgiades.

The sergeant lifted his head. “I fucking am,” he said.

He wrenched himself free from the Sudanis, put his head down and charged at the grey-haired man. Georgiades tripped him up and the Sudanis fell on top of him.

“Get him out, for Christ’s sake,” said Owen.

The Sudanis picked themselves up. The sergeant lay motionless on the floor. Another Sudani came across and helped them to carry him out.

The madam caught the grey-haired man by the sleeve and whispered to him. He came up to Owen.

“I protest!” he said. “This is a gross infringement of our nation’s rights under the Capitulations.”

“Who are you?” asked Owen.

The man drew himself up. “I am a member of the Syrian consular staff.”

He fumbled in the pocket of his dressing-gown and produced a printed slip.

“Here is my card,” he said with dignity.

Owen ignored it.

“I am the Mamur Zapt,” he said. “I have right of entry into all premises.”

“Under protest,” said the man. “My country does not accept that interpretation.”

“Too bad,” said Owen, and turned away.

The sergeant was out of the house now.

“I shall complain to the Agent,” said the grey-haired man. “This is Syrian territory and these are Syrian subjects.”

He had to earn his money. Half the brothels in Cairo, and all the gambling saloons, retained a tame consular official to use in case of emergencies. Under the Capitulations, privileges granted to European powers by successive Ottoman rulers, foreigners were granted immunity from Egyptian law. They could not even be charged unless it could be proved that they had committed an offence not under Egyptian law but in terms of the law of their own native countries. Since nationality was elastic at the best of times in the Levant, it was very hard to convict anyone at all; except, of course, for the poorer Egyptians.

It was a system which commercially inclined Cairenes knew exactly how to turn to advantage, and which drove Garvin and McPhee to despair.

“One of them is a British subject,” said Owen, “and he has been robbed.”

He followed Georgiades out of the house. They had given the Sudanis enough time now to be well on their way.

Beneath the Mamur Zapt’s office was a whole row of cells, but Owen did not want the sergeant put in one of them. He was taken instead to a public prison in the Hosh Sharkawiyeh. Owen had chosen it because it was a caracol, a traditional native lock-up. It consisted of a single long room. There were no windows, just two narrow slits high up for ventilation. Most air and what light there was came in through the heavy wooden bars of the grille-like door, through which prisoners could look up at the busy street outside. The prison stood at the corner of an old square and had either been deliberately built to be below ground level or else, like some of the other buildings in the square, had been constructed at a time when the level was generally lower.

There were fifteen prisoners in the cell, not many by Egyptian standards, but crowded enough. Foetid air reached up to Owen as the keeper unbolted the door. Some of the inmates had been confined for the same reason as the sergeant, and, mixed with the stale air, there was a strong smell of excrement and vomit.

The Sudanis threw the sergeant in and helped the keeper to slide back the heavy bolts.

“The Army is not going to like this,” said Georgiades.

“No,” agreed Owen, “it is not.”

Before they left he gave certain instructions to the keeper. They were to see the sergeant had water, to give him bread, to keep an eye open in case there was trouble between him and the other prisoners, but otherwise on no account to interfere.

That should be enough, thought Owen.

Owen went home and slept late. When he got in to the office the next morning Nikos was already at his desk.

“There’s someone to see you,” he said. “A friend of yours. He's been waiting a long time.”

“Oh,” said Owen. “Where is he?”

Nikos pointed along the corridor. From McPhee’s room came the sound of voices. McPhee’s. Guzman’s.

“If that bugger doesn’t get off my back,” said Owen, “I’ll bloody fix him.”

“The way you did Brooker?” asked Nikos, keeping his eyes firmly on the papers in front of him.

Owen went into his office. A little later McPhee stuck his head in, looking hot and bothered.

“Guzman Bey is here,” he said. “He’s got a complaint.” “Another?”

Owen put his pencil down, closed the file he was working on and rose to greet Guzman as McPhee ushered him in.

“Captain Owen!” Guzman spoke without preamble. “I wish to protest!”

“Really?” said Owen. “What about?”

“Your high-handed action last night. The Khedive has received a formal complaint from the Syrian ambassador.”

“On what grounds?”

“That you forcibly and illegally entered premises belonging to a Syrian citizen-”

“A brothel.”

“-and abducted a guest present on the premises.”

“A customer. A British subject.”

“A British soldier. Characteristically engaged.”

“But British. And therefore no concern of the ambassador’s.”

Nor of the Khedive’s, he nearly added.

“Syrian rights have been infringed. That is the concern of the ambassador.”

Owen reflected. He could simply tell Guzman to go and jump in the Nile. Or he could be more politic. In Cairo it was nearly always best to be more politic. He adopted a reasonable tone..

“At the time of entry the premises were not known to be foreign,” he said. “They were known only to be a particularly vicious brothel. I must say, I find it a little surprising that the ambassador should be defending the rights of someone engaged in conducting such a place!” “Perhaps,” said Guzman drily, “he was unaware of the use to which the premises were put.”

Owen was not sure that the words were meant ironically. Guzman spoke as flatly as he usually did; but was there a glint of humour? If so, it did not survive long.

“The fact remains,” said Guzman, “that Syrian rights have been infringed and the Khedive embarrassed.”

Owen decided to be politic still.

“If the Khedive has been embarrassed,” he said smoothly, “it was, of course, inadvertently on our part. I hope you will convey my personal apologies.”

Guzman was taken aback by this; indeed he appeared slightly put out. He hesitated, as if uncertain about prolonging the interview, and then said, almost tentatively: “The soldier-?”

“Will be dealt with by the Army,” said Owen heartily.

He edged towards the door. Guzman, however, ignored the hint. “But will he?” he asked suddenly.

“Will he — ”

“Be dealt with by the Army?”

“Of course.”

“Will it,” said Guzman meaningfully, “get the chance?”

Owen was caught slightly off balance.

“I don’t quite follow you.”

“I understand,” said Guzman, “that the man is still in your custody.”

“Ah yes,” said Owen, recovering, “but that is only temporarily.” “How temporary?”

“Very temporary,” said Owen firmly. He was not going to be steam-rollered by Guzman.

“May I ask why you are holding him?”

“I just want to ask him a few questions.”

“About-?” “Oh, military matters,” he said vaguely, edging further towards the door.

“Military matters?” Guzman looked puzzled. “But surely that is the concern of the Army?”

Owen realized that he had been cornered again.

“Some are my concern,” he said off-handedly.

“Ah! Security!”

Owen smiled politely, and uninformatively. He took up a stance by the door. Guzman did not appear to notice. He seemed sunk in thought.

“This man you are holding-”

“Yes?”

“What precisely-?”

“I am afraid I am not at liberty to tell you that.”

Guzman was still thinking.

“Was he at the Kantara barracks?” he asked.

Owen continued to smile politely but did not reply.

Guzman thought again. Then he made up his mind.

“I would like to see him,” he said abruptly.

“That,” said Owen, “would not be possible.”

After Guzman had gone, Nikos came back into the room.

“That was odd,” he said. “Why is he so interested?”

“In the sergeant, you mean? Don’t know. For the same reason as us, perhaps.”

“Perhaps,” said Nikos, and went away again still looking thoughtful.

Owen opened his file and worked steadily till lunch. Then he went to the club. In the cloakroom he ran into his friend John, the Sirdar’s aide.

“I don’t want to be seen with you!” his friend said, pretending flight.

“Why not?”

“You’re always doing horrid things to the Army.”

“What am I doing now?”

“Kidnapping its soldiers. Or so I am informed.”

Owen was surprised.

“Christ! That’s quick!” he said. “Who informed you?”

“Someone from the Khediviate.”

“Really?” A nasty suspicion dawned in Owen’s mind. “You don’t, by chance, happen to know his name?”

"He was unwilling to give it but I extracted it. Guzman.” "Guzman! The bastard!”

"You do seem to be having trouble with your acquaintances,” said John.

“When did you get the message?”

“About an hour ago.”

“He must have rung as soon as he got out of my office. The bastard!”

“I take it,” said John, drying his hands, “that the poor kidnapped soldier is a certain ex-sergeant from Kantara?”

“You take it rightly.”

“In that case,” said John, "I wish to know no more. What I can tell you in confidence is that unfortunately I was unable to pass the message on before lunch as I was so busy. Naturally I shall inform my superiors as soon as possible. However, it may be that I shall be detained at lunch by someone who insists on buying me a drink and so I shall miss the afternoon mail with my memo. In which case it would only reach them tomorrow morning.”

“You’re a pal,” said Owen.

“Would it help?”

“It would. It really would.”

“Mind! Till tomorrow only!”

“That should be long enough.”

“In any case,” said John, “it would be bad for the Sirdar’s digestion if he was told that sort of thing just after lunch.”

“We wouldn’t want that to happen. But now, about your own digestion-?”

“A drink would go down very nicely. Yes, please.”

Owen called in at the office after his swim. Nikos was still there. “I don’t understand it,” he said when Owen told him about Guzman’s message. “Why would he do a thing like that?”

“Because he’s a nasty bastard, that’s why!” said Owen with feeling. Nikos shook his head. “That wouldn’t be the only reason.”

“What other reason could there be?”

“I don’t know,” said Nikos.

Owen left him thinking and went on into his own room. Nikos hated things to be untidy, unexplained. He would worry at this like a terrier with a bone.

Some time later he came into Owen’s room.

“Maybe he’s afraid,” he said.

“Afraid? What of?”

“You. Talking to the sergeant. He thinks you might find out something.”

“But why tip off the Army?”

“So that you get less time to talk.”

He collected the papers from Owen’s out-tray and went back into the main office. When Owen looked in half an hour later he had gone home.

Owen himself worked on till well after midnight. Then he called for the sergeant. The sergeant had been in the caracol for over twenty-four hours now; and this time he gave Owen the name he wanted.