Mamur Zapt and the Return of the Carpet. Michael Pearce

carry on shaving,’ the Greek ordered. ‘I don’t want you running away before you’ve finished.’

      ‘Who is running away?’ said the barber. ‘There is still plenty of time.’

      ‘I am running away,’ said the bean-seller. ‘Definitely.’

      At this time in the afternoon the Place Bab el Khalk was fairly empty. A few women, dressed in black and heavily-veiled in this part of the city, were slip-slopping across the square, water-jars on heads, to fetch water for the evening meal. Men sat in the open air cafés or at the street-stalls drinking tea. Children played on the balconies, in the doorways, in the gutter.

      The bean-seller apart, no one appeared to be paying much attention to the approaching demonstrators, though Owen knew they were well aware of them. When the time came, they would slip back off the streets—not too far, they wouldn’t want to miss anything—and take refuge in the open-fronted shops or in the houses. Every balcony would be crowded.

      He could pick out the head of the column distinctly now. They were marching in disciplined, purposeful fashion behind three large green banners and were setting a brisk pace. Behind them the Sharia was packed with black-gowned figures.

      Some of the more nervous café-owners were beginning to fold up chairs and tables and move them indoors. Obliging customers picked up their own chairs and took them into the shops and doorways, where they sat down again and continued their absorbing conversations. There were no women on the street now, and children were being called inside.

      The barber wiped the last suds from the Greek’s face with a brave flourish.

      The Greek felt his chin.

      ‘Wait a minute,’ he said. ‘What about here?’

      ‘Perfect,’ said the barber.

      ‘Show me!’ commanded the Greek.

      The barber reluctantly produced a tin mirror and held it before him.

      ‘It’s lop-sided,’ complained the Greek. ‘You’ve done one side and not the other!’

      ‘Both sides I have done,’ said the barber, casting an uneasy glance down the street. ‘It is just that one side of your face is longer than the other.’

      The Greek insisted, and the barber began to snip and scrape at the offending part.

      The tea-seller lifted his huge brass urn off the counter and took it up an alleyway. Owen felt in his pocket for the necessary milliemes.

      The procession was about a hundred yards away now. At this stage it was still fairly orderly. The students had formed up into ranks about twenty abreast and were marching in a disciplined column, though with the usual untidy fringe around the flanks, which would melt away at the first sign of trouble.

      The barber dropped his scissors into a metal bowl with a clang and hurriedly pulled the protective cloth from off the Greek. The Greek stood up and began to wipe his face. The barber threw his things together and made off down a sidestreet. As he went, the Greek dropped some milliemes in the bowl.

      Owen folded his newspaper and stepped back into the protective cover of a carpet shop. The shop was, like all the shops, without a front, but the carpets might prove a useful shield if things got really nasty.

      The Greek came over and stood beside him.

      ‘Not long now,’ he said.

      The head of the procession entered the Place. Owen’s professional eye picked out among the black gowns several figures in European clothes. These were almost certainly not students but full-time retainers of the various political parties, maintained by them to marshal their own meetings and break up those of their rivals.

      As the column marched past, the students seemed to become progressively younger. El Azhar took students as young as thirteen, and some of the students at the back of the column could have been no more than fourteen or fifteen.

      The procession was now strung out across the Place, the bulk of it in the open space in the middle and the head approaching the street which led up to Abdin Square.

      An open car suddenly shot out of a street at right angles to the procession, cut across in front of it, and stopped. In it was McPhee.

      He stood up and waited for the marchers to halt. The four armed policemen in the car with him leaned over the side of the car and trained their rifles on the front row of the demonstrators.

      The procession hesitated, wavered, and then came to a stop. Those behind bumped into those in front, spread round the sides and formed a semi-circle around the car.

      McPhee began to speak.

      The crowd listened in silence for a brief moment and then started muttering. One or two shouts were heard, and then more, and the chanting started up again. The crowd began to press forward at the edges.

      Owen saw the first missiles and heard the warning shots.

      Then, to the right, came the sound of a bugle and Owen looked up, with the crowd, to see a troop of mounted policemen advancing at the trot.

      This was the pride of the Cairo Police: all ex-Egyptian Army cavalry men, all with long police service, experienced, tough and disciplined, mounted on best quality Syrian Arab stallions expertly trained for riot work.

      They advanced in three rows, spaced out to give the men swinging room.

      Each man had a long pick-axe handle tied to his right wrist by a leather thong.

      At an order the handles were raised.

      And then the troop was among the crowd. Handles rose and fell. The crowd opened up, and there were horses in the gaps, forcing them open still further. They split the crowd into fragments, and round each fragment the horses wheeled and circled, and the sticks rose and fell.

      Whenever a group formed, the horses were on to them.

      Students fell to the ground and either scrabbled away from the horses’ hooves or lay motionless. All over the Place were little crumpled heaps.

      And now there were very few groups, just people fleeing singly, and no matter how fast they fled, the horses always outpaced them.

      All this while, McPhee had stayed in the car, watching. Now he signalled with his hand, and out of the street behind him emerged a mass of policemen on foot.

      They spread out into a long, single line and began to work systematically across the Place.

      Anyone who was standing they clubbed. Behind them, in an area of the Place which steadily became larger, there was no one standing at all, just people sitting, dazed, holding their heads, or black gowns stretched out.

      The last groups broke and fled, harried by the horses.

      ‘Very expertly done,’ said the Greek.

      A student darted in among the stalls and tables close by them, a rider in hot pursuit. The student threw himself on the ground behind a stack of chairs. The horse halted and the policeman leaned over and hit the student once or twice with his stick. Then he rode away.

      The student got to his feet, panting and sobbing. He looked back across the Place and saw the line of foot policemen approaching. In a second he had shot off again.

      He reminded Owen of a hare on the run, the same heaving sides, panicked eyes, even, with his turban gone and his shaven head, the hare’s laid-back ears.

      Another student rushed along behind the row of deserted street-stalls. He brushed right past Owen and then doubled back up an alleyway.

      ‘That one!’ snapped Owen. ‘Follow him! Find out where he goes!’

      Georgiades, the Greek, who was one of Owen’s best agents, was gone in a flash.

      The student was Nuri Pasha’s secretary and son, the difficult Ahmed.

      The tea-seller put the urn back on his stall with