The Mamur Zapt & the Return of the Carpet

by Michael Pearce

  “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.