The Mamur Zapt and the return of the Carpet mz-1
Page 22
“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?”
“To kill me?” Nuri’s eyes rested thoughtfully on the ivory carving of his stick. “Possibly,” he acknowledged, looking up at Owen.
“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.”
“Look,” said Fakhri, “if we’d wanted to publish an article like that we could have done so months ago.”
“I know,” said Owen.
“But we didn’t. And do you know why? Because of the harm it would do. It would play straight into the hands of extremists like el Gazzari and Jemal.”
“I know,” said Owen.
“You know?” said Fakhri, staring. “Then why do you want it? It would mean the end of Abdul Murr-of perhaps the last real chance of the Nationalists developing as a moderate Parliamentary party.”
“I know.”
‘‘Then why-?”
Fakhri stopped as realization dawned.
‘‘I see,” he said. “You don’t want a moderate Parliamentary party.” “Not a strong one.”
“You’d prefer the Nationalists to be in the hands of the extremists because that would mean they would be discredited.”
“And divided,” said Owen.
“So that the British could go on ruling.”
“The Khedive rules, we only advise.”
Fakhri swallowed. “I don’t like it,” he said.
“Why not?” asked Owen. “Other moderates will benefit if the Nationalists become extremist.”
“As you very well know,” said Fakhri bitterly, “we are just as divided.”
“This is your chance, then.”
“You may find it hard to believe this,” said Fakhri, “but I care more about seeing parliamentary democracy established in Egypt than I do about my own political career.”
“Very fine,” said Owen, “but not very realistic.”
Fakhri sat quiet.
“I am sorry,” he said at last, “but I cannot help you.”
“With the article? A pity. It won’t make any difference, you know. I shall find another way of placing it.”
“I would prefer not to be involved.”
“You’re already involved,” said Owen. “You involved yourself. Remember?”
“And this is the punishment?”
“Call it a warning,” said Owen.
“I’d rather go to prison,” said Fakhri with dignity.
“It would be a waste. A mere gesture.”
“And the Egyptians are prone to gestures. I still think it’s one I’d like to make.”
Owen let him go and Nikos showed him out. Afterwards, Georgiades came into the room.
“I like that little man,” said Georgiades, who had been listening outside. “What are you going to do with him?”
“Nothing.”
“The article?” “I’ll place it somewhere else.”
“How about al Liwa?” suggested Georgiades.
John rang.
“What’s all this? This chap Guzman getting away?”
“Not quite,” said Owen, and told him.
“That’s lovely,” said John happily. “The Sirdar will like that. He really will!”
Then Paul.
“The Khedive’s protested.”
“He has?”
“Your action is precipitate and unjustified. He says.”
“What did the Agent say?” asked Owen.
“That he was bloody lucky he didn’t find himself on the boat, too, since the Sirdar was inclined to be even more precipitate.”
They both laughed.
“Actually,” said Paul, “the Old Man thinks it’s neat. No fuss. No bother. Effective. Nice to have a Mamur Zapt who’s got a bit of touch, he said. No, he really did.”
The article appeared in a first-rate political weekly and was much read. Abdul Murr was discredited. The two extremist wings of the Nationalist Party turned on him and devoured the moderates. Afterwards, they turned on each other.
Nuri’s plans, of course, fell through. Those plans. Being Nuri, he soon had others.
Ahmed was sent on a long course of study to France.
Mustafa was discreetly released, completely bewildered by the whole affair and content that matters should rest in the capable hands of his wife. Her sister was duly delivered and looked after.
When the San Demetriou docked at Istanbul there was a reception committee for Guzman, and Owen rather lost touch with what happened after that.
He himself took Zeinab to the opera.
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