The Mamur Zapt & the Return of the Carpet

by Michael Pearce

  “Yes,” said Georgiades instantly.

  He went back to his office and returned with a file.

  “It’s a printer.”

  He took out a leaflet.

  “You’ve seen this before,” he said.

  He laid it on the desk in front of Owen. It was the leaflet Georgiades had been given by Ahmed.

  “He printed that?”

  “Yes. And other things.”

  Georgiades put the file on his desk. Owen opened it. Inside was a selection of handbills, leaflets and pamphlets.

  “All his own work,” said Georgiades.

  They were of a violent, inflammatory kind, similar in tone to the one he had already seen.

  Owen picked one out.

  “They seem to have a thing about the Sirdar,” he said.

  “About the British generally,” said Georgiades.

  He showed Owen some more.

  “About most people,” said Owen, turning them over.

  “Not about Greeks,” said Georgiades. “They’ve left me out of it. So far.”

  “Anti-Turk?” asked Owen.

  “Why should he be anti-Turk? He’s a Turk himself.”

  “Well, isn’t that interesting?” said Owen, thinking about other Ahmed connections.

  “There’s a room over the shop,” said Georgiades. “Two men live there. Others go there.”

  “You’ve got a man on the place?”

  “I’ve got someone who calls in. Regularly.”

  “Better have someone on it full time from now on. At least for the next week.”

  The next day a vendor of religious knick-knacks took up position in the street where the printer lived. He suffered badly from ophthalmia and was almost blind. The little boys of the street could easily have stolen the things from his tray had it been worth it. The women took pity on him and brought him bowls of durra, especially when, in the heat of the afternoon, he stopped his fruitless patrolling and sat down in the shade with his back against the cool stone of the wall and his tray in front of him in the dust. There were similar figures along the street and another representative of God’s afflicted was not noticed.

  The day before the Carpet returned, when the workmen were putting the final touches to the pavilions in the big square before the Citadel and the small shopkeepers along the Sharia Mohammed Ali were decking their shops with bunting, the two men moved out.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Khedive’s pavilion stood far down in the open space below the Citadel. From there the ground sloped upwards, first to the Market of the Afternoon and then to the Meidan Rumelah. After that it rose steeply and became the giant rock of the Citadel itself. At the top of the rock were the massive towers and ramparts of Saladin’s castle; and at the utmost top of the castle was the Mosque of Mehemet Ali, with its obelisk and soaring dome. From that great dome, built only a century before, a host of smaller minarets and domes descended in a sweep like the curve of a scimitar to the two other great mosques which stood left and right where the chief thoroughfare of the city, the Sharia Mohammed Ali, came out into Citadel Square.

  In the early morning sunshine the Mameluke domes took on the colour of pearl and rose. Pageants were early in Egypt to avoid the fierceness of the noonday sun, and the people had been gathering since before six. Many of them had brought seats, not so much to sit on—the ground would do for that—as to stand on when the procession went past. They were kept well back from the Khedive’s pavilion by a fence of soldiers. Whenever they encroached beyond the fence they were turned back by mounted policemen on white horses.

  The soldiers, too, had arrived early. First, the foot soldiers of the Egyptian Army, in their sky-blue, with white spats and scarlet tarbooshes. Then the artillery with their horse-drawn guns to fire the salute. The guns were ranged in line, the horses detached, and the crews set to preparing the pieces. Last came the cavalry, again in light blue, the staff conspicuous in white and gold.

  Notables and foreigners arrived some time after. A space had been roped off for their carriages not far from the Khedivial Pavilion. Lesser notables stood in front of the pavilion, and there was a sort of tribune for those members of the diplomatic corps who had not been able to find an excuse for leaving Cairo that weekend. The pavilion itself was filled with chairs for the dignitaries, and soon they began arriving. The pashas had gold bands around their turbans, and among them, in robes of sacred green, was the Sheikh el Bekri, the Descendant of the Prophet. There were ministers and politicians and a number of officials in court dress. Among them, too, was the British Agent, in morning dress, and the Sirdar, resplendent in full dress uniform.

  The Khedive himself did not arrive until the last moment—indeed, after the last moment, for the ceremony was due to start at nine and he did not arrive until nine-fifteen. The band played the Egyptian anthem, the guns thundered out, and the Army stood at salute. A car dashed up to the pavilion and the Khedive got out to be greeted by the Prime Minister, dressed in a green sash, and countless other officials, all in vivid sashes of one kind or another.

  Immediately afterwards a burst of Oriental kettle-drums and hautboys from the entrance of the square announced that the procession was approaching.

  At the head of the procession, nodding gravely on its camel, was the Mahmal, a square tent twelve feet high, of crimson and cloth-of-gold, with gold balls and green tassels. Because of the nature of a camel’s gait it was very seldom upright, but jogged jauntily along, surrounded by religious banners gorgeous with Arabic texts. It was followed by a standard-bearer and five drum-beaters mounted on fine camels with splendid trappings, the same band probably that had played into Cairo every important pilgrim who had lately returned from Mecca. The camels were led by men in picturesque dresses, who did not at all look as if they had been to Mecca. They did not even look respectable. They looked as if they were men who did odd jobs about the bazaars, hired for the occasion. Their business, it was clear, was to lead the band camels, not to have been to Mecca. There was also a jester, but he was a holy man and had been to Mecca.

  Behind it was the escort, burned black by the sun of the Arabian desert, incongruous in its Britishness and with its modern artillery, marching with precision, competent, necessary.

  When the Mahmal came abreast of the Khedivial Pavilion it went through various evolutions while it performed the required seven circles. Then it advanced right up to the pavilion steps.

  The Khedive came down the steps to receive it.

  Owen could almost hear the officers’ intake of breath as a mass of people in brightly coloured dress swarmed around the plump figure. But Owen was not watching them; his eyes were on the motley about the camels.

  His men did as they should and formed an inconspicuous, informal screen between the enthusiastic crowd and the officials, and after a few moments the Khedive turned back up the steps and returned to his chair.

  The procession resumed. The Mahmal nodded away, appearing to toss on the sea of supporters which closed in uncontrollably now on every side. With a final blaze of hautboys the camels disappeared.

  The Khedive was already getting into his car. The escort took up position. At the last moment Owen had been persuaded to include a detachment of the Camel Corps, on the grounds that with their tall cocks’ plumes, they were especially picturesque and the Khedive would love them. He had wondered whether to station them in front of the Khedive’s car so as to force the Khedive to slow down and keep within the wall of his escort. That would be dangerous, however, should the Khedive need to make a quick getaway, and he had settled for the rear. He was determined to have the more mobile horses guarding the sides.

  As soon as the Khedive’s party had moved off there was a general rush for carriages. Owen saw Paul and the Agent waiting quietly until the first burst had subsided and then making their way in the opposite direction to where an open tourer had drawn up
unobtrusively. They stepped in and were gone.

  Officers barked orders and the soldiers began to form. Owen could not see the Sirdar at first but then picked him out. He was already mounted and talking to a group of officers, similarly mounted.

  The soldiers were ready to move off. The Sirdar took up his position at the head of the column. There was a trumpet call, a pause and then another trumpet call. The column moved off and turned up the Mohammed Ali.

  The sharia was broad and its lower end lined with trees. Bunting was draped between the trees, and many of the small shops were festooned with brightly coloured flags. The crowd here was less tumultuous than the one which had threatened to overwhelm the Mahmal and at first the applause was dutiful rather than enthusiastic. Few Cairenes, however, could resist a spectacle and before long the crowded pavements were a-buzz with delight at the tall soldiers.

  Some of them were indeed very tall. Following the triumphant conclusion of the Sirdar’s campaign, many Sudanese had been recruited into the Army. You could tell them by their darker skin. They were much taller and fitter than the average fellahin. In their splendid tarbooshes they looked gigantic.

  Police lined the route throughout, keeping the onlookers well back from the marchers. McPhee had had to raid the forces outside Cairo. For some of the country police it was their first visit to Cairo and they were both impressed and bewildered. The police were spaced more widely than McPhee would have liked. It was easy to break through the cordon—small boys were forever doing so—though when anyone did they were soon chivvied back by mounted police with rhino-ceroshide whips.

  Owen began to move up the column, keeping his horse well out to one side, unobtrusively close to the long line of policemen.

  He had chosen to ride because of the extra mobility but it also gave him a better view. From where he sat he could see over the heads of the policemen into the crowd. Occasionally he saw faces he recognized: journalists, minor civil servants with their families, even middling notables who had been at the Khedive’s Pavilion, picked out by their sashes, ostensibly on their way home but reluctant to miss any of the fun. He even thought he saw Guzman, but that was almost certainly a mistake.

  He looked back down the Mohammed Ali. At the far end was a dense cloud. The street had been heavily watered that morning but already the sun was drying it out and the wheels of the gun carriages were stirring the dust.

  The whole of the column was in the Mohammed Ali now and the front of the procession—he could just see the mounted figures—was about half way along, approaching the point where the street suddenly narrowed and ran between blocks of residential houses. Owen urged his horse. It was here if anywhere that there might be trouble.

  It was to a house in that part of the sharia that the two men had moved when they left the room above the printer’s. They had taken a room on the first floor with heavy latticed windows hanging over the street. The edge of the procession would pass directly under them.

  Georgiades would have all that well in hand. In fact—Owen looked at his watch—he would already have acted.

  The head of the procession was about level with the house now. Owen stood up on his stirrups to see better. Yes, it was almost exactly parallel. Nothing happened. It was now definitely past.

  He relaxed back into his saddle. A small boy squeezed between a constable’s knees and ran out into the street. Scandalized, the constable grabbed him and thrust him back into the crowd.

  Owen had had to rein in. He paused now and looked along the crowd. It was intent on the spectacle, relaxed, enjoying itself. The sweet-sellers, sherbet-sellers, lemonade-sellers and souvenir-hawkers were doing good business. A few youths were distributing political leaflets. One of them seemed familiar. The boy turned and Owen saw that it was Ahmed. He was thrusting leaflets into the hands of the onlookers. They took them blindly, their eyes on the soldiers.

  I don’t think you’ll do a lot of trade today! thought Owen, and urged his horse on up the line.

  And then suddenly, right on top of him it seemed, there was an enormous bang.

  ***

  For a moment or two he could not quite take in what had happened. He became aware that his horse was shying and twisting. Almost automatically he brought it back under control. Then he grew conscious of the ringing in his ears and of that distinctive after-echo and realized.

  There had been an explosion, a bomb had been thrown. A grenade.

  And yet the procession was marching on as if nothing had happened.

  An acrid cloud of smoke drifted across him. He looked round, bewildered.

  And then he saw.

  Behind him, a little way down the sharia, a horse, one of the police horses, was on its knees in a pool of blood. Its rider lay to one side in a crumpled heap, and everywhere, all over the pavement, people were lying. Police were running towards them, and children were crying, and the soldiers went on marching past.

  Someone was plucking at his stirrup. It was one of the policemen.

  “I saw him, effendi!” His eyes were round with shock. “I saw him! He threw something!”

  The horse dropped its head and turned over on its side. Great shudders ran along its flanks and each shudder widened the gap in its belly from which blood and something else was pouring out. A leg seemed to have become detached from the horse and lay at a strange angle as if it did not belong to its owner.

  Owen took a grip on himself.

  “You saw him?” he said.

  The constable was still clinging to his stirrup.

  “Yes, effendi,” the man almost pleaded.

  “Who was it?” Then, seeing the man was not taking it in, he gestured towards the crowd. “Which one?”

  The constable had to force himself to look.

  “I don’t know,” he said. And then: “He ran away. I saw him.”

  McPhee appeared, distressed, efficient.

  “You straighten things out here,” Owen said harshly. “I’ve got to see what’s happening up front.”

  McPhee began at once to issue orders.

  Owen called to him.

  “This man says he saw who did it.” He indicated the constable beside him. “Get someone after them if you can.”

  “Right,” said McPhee, and came across.

  Owen had to prise the constable’s fingers open to get him to release the stirrup.

  As he prepared to ride away, Owen caught sight of Ahmed. He was sitting among the people on the pavement, his head on his knees, weeping.

  Owen called to one of the policemen.

  “Get that one!” he said, pointing.

  He did not wait to see what happened but touched his heels to his horse’s sides and cantered up towards the front of the column.

  It was proceeding as if nothing had happened. The heels clipped in smartly, the arms swung, the faces were as impassive as ever. And up here, seeing only what they expected, the crowd, which obviously had heard the explosion, assumed that it was somehow part of the procession and cheered and shouted and waved as before.

  Georgiades stepped out into the street.

  “What’s happened?” he said.

  “Did you get them?”

  “Yes.”

  “The grenades?”

  “Two of them.”

  “That was the third, then,” said Owen.

  “Anyone hurt?”

  “Yes.”

  Georgiades grimaced.

  “It was probably intended as a decoy,” he said, “to distract attention from what was going to happen up this end.”

  “You got the men?” asked Owen again.

  “Sure thing,” Georgiades soothed him. “Two men and a boy.”

  “A boy?”

  “A walad. To run messages, perhaps? Anyway, we’ve got them.”

  Owen cantered on.

  Two horse
s detached themselves from the front of the column. One of them turned back to meet him. It was Brooker.

  “What’s gone wrong?” he said.

  “Sirdar OK?”

  “Yes.” Brooker looked at him. “Why shouldn’t he be?”

  The other horse was John’s.

  “Christ, Gareth!” he said. “What’s up?”

  “Decoy—we think. The main business was to happen up here.”

  “Bloody hell.”

  John prepared to speed back to the Sirdar.

  “We’ve got them,” said Owen. “The ones who were to do the business up here.”

  “The grenades?”

  “All three accounted for. That was one of them you heard.”

  “The others—”

  “We’ve got. With their owners.”

  “Thank Christ for that, anyway.”

  He and Brooker rode back to the Sirdar.

  The procession was approaching the Bab el Khalk, where it would swing left into the Sharia Ghane. The streets were wider here. There was less likelihood of an attack. Owen watched for a moment and then cantered back the way he had come.

  The rear of the column was passing the dead horse now. Some of the horses shied a little as they sensed the carcase.

  The pavement was clear. People were being helped into ambulances.

  “No one much hurt, actually,” said McPhee. “Concussed, shocked, but nothing more. So far as we can tell. OK up front?”

  “Yes. All according to plan.”

  “Up front, yes,” said McPhee.

  The horse was still. The blood was dark with flies, and other flies were dense about the entrails.

  The rider had been moved.

  “What about him?” said Owen, gesturing.

  “Concussed. Just, we think. Alive, anyway.”

  It could have been a lot worse.

  They were enveloped in a great cloud of dust as the artillery went by. They emerged coughing and choking.

  “Did Georgiades get the others?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’ve got this silly bugger,” said McPhee, waving his hand, “if he had anything to do with it.”