Mamur Zapt and the Return of the Carpet. Michael Pearce

was speaking generally.’

      Nuri leaned back in his chair and called to one of his servants. The man disappeared into the house.

      ‘You must speak to Ahmed,’ he said. ‘He deals with my mail.’

      A sulky young Egyptian came out of the house. He seemed to walk across the lawn deliberately slowly, placed himself directly in front of Nuri, with his back to Owen and Mahmoud, and said:

      ‘Yes?’

      ‘Mon cher,’ said Nuri reproachfully. ‘We have guests.’

      The young man deigned to throw them a glance.

      ‘Interesting guests,’ said Nuri. ‘Le Parquet et le Mamur Zapt.’

      The glance the young man threw now was one of undisguised hostility.

      Nuri sighed.

      ‘Our guests were asking if I have received any threatening letters recently?’

      ‘You always receive threatening letters,’ said the young man harshly. ‘Deservedly.’

      ‘I would like to see,’ said Owen, ‘any that have been received in the last three weeks.’

      The young man looked at Nuri.

      ‘Please!’ said Nuri. ‘If you have not already consigned them to the wastepaper basket as they deserve.’

      ‘Very well,’ said the young man, ‘if you wish.’

      He went off into the house.

      Nuri regarded him fondly.

      ‘My son,’ he said, ‘by a slave girl. He hates me.’

      Ahmed returned with a sheaf of papers which he gave to Nuri, who in turn passed them to Owen.

      They were very much as Owen had expected: abusive letters from individuals, either badly written or in the ornate script of the bazaar letter-writer; scurrilous attacks by obscure radical organizations, darkly hinting that Nuri would get his deserts; savage denunciations by extremist religious groups, threatening retribution; and the expected extortionary letters from the new political ‘Clubs’ which had sprung up in such profusion in the last couple of years.

      There were four letters in this last category and Owen found no ‘Club’ names among them that he did not recognize. This should make it comparatively easy to check them out.

      He passed the sheaf on to Mahmoud.

      ‘I’d like to keep them for a bit, if I may,’ he said.

      ‘Of course.’

      ‘Can I go?’ asked Ahmed.

      Nuri looked at Owen.

      ‘Unless the Mamur Zapt wishes for something else?’ he said.

      Owen shook his head. The young man turned away immediately.

      Nuri sighed.

      The interview came to an end soon after and a servant showed them out.

      They went into the house through a large, cool room, all marble and tiles, in which several people were sitting with drinks in their hands.

      Among them was Ahmed. As Owen and Mahmoud entered, he ostentatiously turned his back. The woman beside him looked up at Owen with amusement. Owen caught a glimpse of a strong, beaky face and dark hair.

      The other guests treated them with polite indifference. They were for the most part elderly, wealthy, Europeanized. In the upper levels of Cairene society it was fairly usual for women to be present and for alcohol to be served; but, Owen reflected, had any of the fundamentalist groups which had written to Nuri been watching, it would have added fuel to their denunciations.

      He and Mahmoud walked back to the main street to find an arabeah. By mutual consent they walked slowly. In this wealthy suburb of Cairo the bougainvillaea spilled over the walls and the pepper trees and eucalyptus hung out across the road making it cool and shady. From the green recesses of the trees came a continuous purring and gurgling of doves.

      ‘A clear-cut case,’ said Mahmoud. ‘Circumstantial evidence, motive, confession.’

      ‘Believe it?’

      ‘Not for one moment,’ said Mahmoud.

CHAPTER 3

      Owen could not give all his time to the Nuri Pasha affair. He had his ordinary work to do.

      This morning it was the demonstration. One of his men had picked the rumour up in el Azhar, Cairo’s great Islamic university. It was supposed to be taking place that afternoon once the sun had moved off the streets. Intelligently, the man was staying in the university so that he could keep an eye on developments. His reports came every hour. It looked as if the thing was definitely on.

      According to his most recent information, the demonstration would take place in Abdin Square, in front of the Khedive’s Palace. The students intended to march there in procession from the university. They would make their way in separate groups through the narrow mediaeval streets which surrounded el Azhar and assemble in the wider Bab Zouweleh, before the Mouayad Mosque. Then they would march along the Sharia Taht er Rebaa, cross the Place Bab el Khalk, and proceed past the Ecole Khediviale de Droit, at which point they would join the law students. From there it was a short step to Abdin Square.

      ‘Mounted?’ asked Nikos.

      Nikos was the Mamur Zapt’s Official Secretary; a sharp young Copt.

      Owen nodded.

      ‘With foot in reserve to mop up. I’ve already spoken to McPhee.’

      ‘I’ll check,’ said Nikos, rolling up the street plan.

      ‘And, just in case,’ said Owen, ‘I want both entrances to Abdin Square sealed off.’

      ‘Both?’

      ‘The two on the eastern side. The Gami’a Abdin as well as the Bab el Khalk.’

      ‘It shouldn’t be necessary,’ said Nikos.

      ‘I know. But I don’t want to risk any of them getting into Abdin Square.’

      Nikos inclined his head to show that he had understood. He reached across the desk, took some papers from the out-tray and stuffed them under his arm along with the street map.

      ‘It means more men,’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t a small mounted troop in the Square do instead?’

      ‘No. It would look bad.’

      Nikos raised dark eyebrows. ‘That worries you?’

      ‘A bit,’ Owen conceded.

      ‘The Khedive is hardly going to complain.’

      ‘He might,’ said Owen. ‘Just to be difficult.’

      Nikos made a dismissive gesture. He had a Cairene contempt for the powerless.

      From along the corridor came the chink of cups and a strong aroma of coffee.

      ‘It’s not that, though,’ said Owen. ‘It’s the way it might come across in the papers. The international ones, I mean.’

      Especially now, he thought, with the new Liberal Government in England feeling extremely sensitive about international opinion after the Denshawai business and trying to get out. He wondered how much Nikos knew. Enough, he suspected. Nikos wasn’t stupid.

      Nor, in fact, was the Khedive. He was adept at finding pretexts to cause diplomatic trouble. There were plenty ready to help him. France for one, which had never forgiven the British for the way they had stayed on after crushing the Arabi rebellion. Turkey for another. After all, Egypt was still in theory a province of the Ottoman Empire, with a Head of State, the Khedive,