The Mamur Zapt & the Return of the Carpet
Page 22
It was possible. Some of the societies were very small. It was possible this was. That would account for its success in going undetected.
“They would kill me,” said Ahmed.
“You will be safe,” said Mahmoud, “in prison.”
“If what you say is true,” said Owen, “we hold them.”
“Guzman is free,” said Ahmed.
***
Owen and Mahmoud went round the corner to a Turkish restaurant. As they approached it the smell of charcoal lay pleasantly on the night air.
Mahmoud said to Owen: “What will you do with him?”
“After? Let him go. Hand him over to you. He’s no use to me.”
Mahmoud was silent.
“Hand him over to you, I expect,” said Owen. “At any rate the Nuri part is solved. You will be able to write it up and get it to court.”
“It will never get to court,” said Mahmoud. “It will be quietly dropped. Nuri will see to that.”
Now it was Owen’s turn to be silent.
“I’ll be put on another case tomorrow,” said Mahmoud. “Nuri will already be pulling strings.”
“What about Mustafa? Will they set him up instead?”
“They might not. They’ll probably just let him out after a time. Otherwise Ahmed might not go along with it.”
“To do him justice,” said Owen.
“He’s all right. Just young.”
“Want me to keep him? For a bit?”
“No,” said Mahmoud. “He’s learned his lesson.”
They walked a few steps further. The restaurant came into view.
“On second thoughts,” said Mahmoud, “perhaps you’d better keep him. Until you’ve taken care of Guzman.”
***
“Suppose we do catch him,” said Georgiades, “what then?”
“What then?” said Owen. “I’ll bloody well see he’s tried and convicted, that’s what’s then!”
“You’ll be lucky,” said Georgiades.
“Lucky? The case is cast-iron.”
“If it’s ever heard.”
“What do you mean?”
“It depends on Ahmed,” said Georgiades. “Will he testify?”
“He’d better!”
Georgiades eased himself on his chair. Although it was still very early in the morning the heat was intense.
“Is he going to be tried himself? Ahmed, I mean?”
“Mahmoud thinks not,” Owen conceded.
“There you are!” said Georgiades.
“He may not be tried,” said Owen, “but he can bloody well testify.”
“He’ll be out of the country. His father will pay for him to have a long vacation. Far away.”
Owen, who was hot, too, had not expected Georgiades to take this line.
“Are you saying we can’t make this stuck?” he said with irritation.
“I’m saying it will never get to court. Guzman is one of the Khedive’s staff. He will look after him.”
“Even if he’s tried to blow up the Sirdar?”
“Especially if he’s tried to blow up the Sirdar. And that’s another thing: Guzman will be a popular hero. Have you thought of that? He’s done what every Egyptian would like to do: blow up the Sirdar. Or at any rate try to. Bring him before a court and there would be a wave of popular feeling. I can just see it.”
Owen could see it, too.
“What are we going to do, then?” he said. “We can’t just let him go scot free.”
Georgiades shrugged.
“You could kick him out,” he said. “Encourage him to use his talents somewhere else.”
“Send him back to Turkey? That’s just what he wants!”
“Is it?”
Owen looked at him.
Georgiades spread his hands.
“Well,” he said. “Think! A Young Turk. Is that going to make him popular with the Sultan? Practising assassination. Do you think the Sultan would like that? It might be him next time. Secret society, revolutionary, conspirator. Wonderful! Just the chap the Sultan needs! I’ll tell you one thing. Guzman may be popular with the Egyptians. He might be popular with the Turks for all I know. But one thing is for sure: he won’t be very popular with the Sultan!”
***
When Georgiades had gone, Owen sat there thinking. Gradually his chair tipped back. He put his hands behind his head and closed his eyes. His feet found their way on to his desk. The chair tilted even more, so much so that Owen came to with a start. He pushed the chair back so that his shoulders rested against the wall. Feet went back on to desk. He shut his eyes again and blotted out everything except what he was thinking of.
He was still like this when Georgiades reappeared. He took one look at Owen and then padded away again without disturbing him.
And he was still like this one hour later when Nikos went in. Nikos, too, might have left him, but Nuri was waiting outside. This was an honour and Nikos was impressed.
“His Eminence, Nuri Pasha,” he announced grandly as he ushered Nuri into the room.
Nuri, quite recovered now, came forward with outstretched hand, all geniality.
“It is good of you to see me, Captain Owen,” he said. “I know you must be busy.”
Nikos looked at Owen reproachfully and then retired, leaving the door conveniently open, for the sake of coolness no doubt.
Nuri sat down on one of the hard wooden chairs which were all that Owen had. He placed his walking stick, a different one from the one Owen had seen previously, ivory-topped this time, between his knees and folded his hands over the top. The heavy torso and massive neck and head were thrust forward slightly in eager anticipation of Owen’s words and the face sympathetic, friendly, amused. The eyes were as shrewd and watchful as before.
Nuri came straight to the point.
“What shall I do about my foolish son, Captain Owen?”
Owen had half-expected this, both because it was the custom of the country and because he knew Nuri could never refrain from politicking.
“He has done wrong, I know, and must be punished for it. But,” said Nuri, “as I am the only one who has suffered—”
“Mustafa?”
“Mustafa must be looked after,” Nuri acknowledged. “I will see to that. But apart from him—” He stopped. “Of course, there is the danger to the state. I recognize that. But somehow I do not see Ahmed as a major threat to that.”
He smiled, inviting Owen to join in. Owen, carefully, did not. Nuri registered the lack of response and changed the note.
“Besides,” he said sombrely, “it is, in part at least, my fault.”
“Why?” asked Owen.
“I should have taken him more seriously. Though that is hard to do. Especially when his political ideas are so naïve. He badly needs a lesson in realism.”
“This is it,” said Owen.
“Yes,” said Nuri, “but the lesson comes costly. No parent likes his child paying the price. Have you any children, Captain Owen?”
“No,” said Owen. “I am not married.”
“Not even in India?”
“No.”
“Ah,” said Nuri, a little wistfully. “Then you will not know what it is like.”
“What do you want?” asked Owen.
“I do not want the charges to be pressed.”
“That is a matter for the Parquet.”
“Not entirely,” said Nuri, “and in any case I have seen to that. He is held by the Mamur Zapt.”
“He is held under security provisions.”
“Of course.” Nuri held up a hand. “I am not objecting to that. I, too, have an interest in security. What I was wondering, however, was whether Ahmed constituted such a threat that giving him a good scare would not suffice. He would have to leave the country, of course.
He has been a nuisance to you and I would have to ensure that he was no longer a nuisance. I recognize that. But I think I could guarantee that to your satisfaction.”
“Where would you send him?”
“To Paris. To the Sorbonne. To study law.”
He caught Owen’s eye and grimaced.
“I know,” he said. “He hasn’t the brains. But he thinks he has, and I don’t want to be the one to undeceive him. Frankly,” he said, “I have not been altogether skilful in my relations with my son.”
“I’ll think about it,” said Owen.
Nuri stood up, beaming.
“That is all I ask,” he said, stretching out his hand. “It is good of you even to consider it. As Sir Eldon said only this morning, Ahmed is a damned nuisance.”
Owen took in with amusement the reference to the British Agent. Nuri believed in letting people know how the cards were stacked.
As Nuri went out he said: “You have met my daughter, I believe?”
“Zeinab,” said Owen. “Yes.”
“I’m pleased about that,” said Nuri. “At least you won’t think that the whole family is imbecile.”
***
“So what do you want me to do?” asked Garvin.
“I’d like you to get a deportation order signed,” said Owen, “and handed to me for execution.”
“We don’t want anything to happen on the way to the docks,” Garvin warned.
“Not my style. I just want to make sure he gets on a particular boat. So that I can arrange a reception committee at the other end.”
“He’ll smell a rat.”
“He won’t even know it’s me. They’ll be just ordinary officials.”
“Not too ordinary. Otherwise he’ll get away.”
“He won’t get away.”
Garvin mused.
“This reception committee you’re organizing,” he said. “I don’t know that I go along with that sort of thing. Especially in a foreign country. Especially in a foreign country like Turkey.”
“I’m not organizing it myself,” Owen explained. “I’m just tipping off someone else so that they can organize it.”
“Friends?”
“The authorities. The Sultan.”
Garvin looked surprised. Then he understood.
“It may come unstuck,” he said. “There are plenty of Young Turk sympathizers in the police and among the Sultan’s own men. They may see it doesn’t happen.”
“I’ve thought of that, too. I think I know a way of getting a special word to the Sultan personally. After that it’s up to him. Entirely,” said Owen.
“That’s it, is it?” asked Garvin, looking at him. “You’re not involved in any other way?”
“Cross my heart and hope to die.”
“I shouldn’t hope to die,” said Garvin. “Someone might take you seriously.”
“I’m not involved in any other way.”
Garvin weighed the assurance dispassionately. Apparently he came to the conclusion either that Owen was speaking the truth or that it did not matter if he was not, for he said: “OK then. I’ll see what I can do.”
He shook the tiny bazaar bell on his desk and asked the orderly to bring him a form.
Owen was a little disquieted. He had not expected Garvin to envisage other possibilities. Having the law on their side, the English did not need to have recourse to such things, although Owen knew that most of the countries around them did. Perhaps it was just Garvin’s chilly way.
Garvin made out the form.
“I shall take this to Harry personally,” he said.
Harry was the adviser to the Interior Minister.
“The Minister himself has to sign it. Harry will get him to do that, but I can’t answer for its confidentiality afterwards. Not five minutes afterwards!”
“Let me make a phone call,” said Owen, “and I’ll be ready to move.”
Owen made his phone call. Garvin saw Harry and gave the deportation order into Owen’s own hands. The order was served immediately on a Guzman who for once was taken by surprise. A handful of picked men escorted him to the docks and put him on an Istanbul-bound steamer where he was placed at once in a locked cabin with a man, again picked, outside the door. And within an hour the steamer was nosing out into the Mediterranean.
Owen and Georgiades watched it go.
“Suleiman will be all right,” said Georgiades. “The problems will start at the other end.”
“They’ll be problems for Guzman,” said Owen.
***
When Owen got back to Cairo he called in Nuri to see him. That was twice in two days and Nikos was doubly impressed.
Nuri, however, was not surprised.
“It’s always best to move fast in these matters,” he said.
“How fast we move depends on you,” said Owen.
“Ah?”
Nuri settled himself back in the chair to hear the terms of the deal.
“In things like this,” said Owen, “the pawns are not important.”
“Just so,” said Nuri, “the Mustafas.”
“The Ahmeds.”
Nuri was a little surprised at the classification but saw that it had potential and nodded polite agreement.
“What matters,” said Owen, “are the persons moving the pawns.”
Nuri looked at Owen quickly but said nothing. Perhaps he feared that this extension of the classification was directed at him.
“Take the attack on you, for instance,” said Owen. “Mustafa was only a tool. So was Ahmed. A more complex one, possibly, but still only a tool. He took some things on himself—”
“Foolishly.”
“Foolishly,” Owen agreed, “but generously. He wanted to put the world to rights—”
“He’s young,” said Nuri, but looked pleased.
“—but basically he was being used. It’s the people who were using him that I’m concerned with.”
“Yes?”
“I was wondering how you felt about Guzman.”
Nuri took his time about replying. Owen knew that he was figuring out all the angles.
“Guzman is a dangerous man,” he said eventually.
“Yes. Did you know how dangerous?”
Nuri shook his head.
“No,” he said. “He’s always been secretive. I knew he was fanatical and suspected he was extremist. But I did not imagine that he was so actively involved.”
“You worked with him?”
“Well,” said Nuri, “alongside him. We were never close.”
“Rivals?”
“You could call it that.”
“He let Ahmed have the gun. Is that his way with rivals?”
Nuri was silent.
“I’m not saying he meant Mustafa to kill you,” said Owen, “but I don’t think he would have minded if he had.”
Nuri smiled wintrily.
“I think that is an accurate assessment,” he agreed.
“Why is that?” asked Owen. “Is he like that with everybody or has he got something particular against you?”
“Both,” said Nuri. “He is like that with everybody and he has something particular against me.”
“And you’re not going to tell me what that something particular is.”
“No,” said Nuri. “I am not.”
They both laughed.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Owen, “because I think I know it already.”
“Ah!” said Nuri, and laughed, but took it in.
“Your negotiations with Abdul Murr.”
Nuri said nothing; but Owen saw that the remark registered.
“However,” he said, “that is not my concern at the moment. What I want to know is this: is he going to try again? More seriously this time?”
“I was wondering if it would be a good idea to take measures,” said Owen.
Nuri’s eyes met his unblinkingly.
“That could be arranged,” he said quietly.
Owen saw that Nuri had misunderstood him.
“Not that,” he said.
“Oh?”
“Guzman left the country this morning.”
“Really?” said Nuri, surprised. “Already? How disappointing!”
“Not very,” said Owen. “We pushed him. We put him on a boat. The San Demetriou. It left Alexandria this morning.”
Nuri looked puzzled.
“Then—?”
“For Istanbul. He’s in a locked cabin and will stay there until he arrives.”
Nuri still looked puzzled.
“We thought the Sultan might like to know.”
Nuri’s face cleared.
“Ah!” he said. “I am beginning to understand.”
“Someone, of course, would need to let him know. Privately. And without going through too many people.”
“I understand now exactly,” said Nuri.
He rose to his feet and held out his hand.
“A pleasure!” he said. “A real pleasure!”
As he got to the door he looked back.
“And my stupid son?” he asked.
“What you were suggesting the other day,” said Owen, “sounds entirely reasonable.”
***
The next person to call on the Mamur Zapt was Fakhri.
He came at Owen’s request and was more than a little nervous. Owen, however, held out a welcoming hand.
“I’m hoping you might be able to help me,” he said.
“You want me to help you?” asked Fakhri.
“That’s right,” Owen agreed amiably.
Fakhri appeared even more nervous.
“I am, of course, at your service,” he said cautiously.
“I’d like an article placed,” said Owen, “somewhere where political people will read it.”
“What sort of article?”
“Oh, just a review of the current political scene. It would, however, refer in passing to attempts by Nuri Pasha to form an alliance with moderate elements in the Nationalist Party and say that such attempts showed every sign of succeeding.”