The Mamur Zapt and the Return of the Carpet by Michael Pearce Page B

police
were still in action, prising out the students from
their hiding-places among the stalls and chairs. Owen was pleased to see that
McPhee had them well in hand. It was only too easy for them to get out of
control in a situation such as this.
    McPhee,
helmetless and with his fair hair all over the place, was plainly enjoying
himself. His face was lit up with excitement. It was not that he was a violent
man; he just loved, as he would have put it, a bit of a scrap. Strange, thought
Owen, for he was a civilian, an exteacher. On second thoughts perhaps it was
not so strange.
    He
was using a cane, not a pick-handle. He had a revolver at his waist but had not
drawn it throughout the whole business, even when he had been threatened in the
car.
    He
was driving slowly round the square now, ostensibly chivvying the students, in
fact, Owen noted, calling off his men.
    At
the far side of the Place the mounted troop had reformed and was sitting at
ease, the horses still excited and breathing heavily, pick-handles now hanging
loosely again from the riders’ wrists.
    Georgiades
reappeared.
    He
spotted the tea-seller and came up to the stall.
    “Here
is a man who deserves to be favoured of Fortune,” he said, “the first man back
on the street with his tea.”
    “I
shall undoubtedly be rich,” said the tea-seller, “but not yet.”
    He
made Georgiades some mint tea. The Greek took the glass and stood casually by
Owen.
    “See
how our friend is already rewarded!” he said to Owen. “Heads are the only thing
damaged on the street today.”
    “And
my head not among them,” said the tea-seller.
    He
took the lid off the urn, looked inside and went to fetch some more water.
    Georgiades
turned so that he was looking out over the Place.
    “Your
little friend,” he said quietly.
    “Yes?”
said Owen, equally quietly, and turning, too. They might have been discussing
the demonstration.
    “You
saw where he went?”
    Georgiades
nodded.
    “Not
far.”
    Owen
waited. A student limped past.
    “Where
did he go?”
    “To a newspaper office.”
    “He
would!” said Owen. “Which?”
    “Al Liwa . ”
    “Might
have guessed,” said Owen, recalling the chanting he had heard. Al Liwa was the recently established organ of the National, or Hisb-el-Watani, Party.
    “They’d
have heard, anyway,” said Georgiades, thinking Owen was worried about the
paper’s reaction to the breaking up of the demonstration.
    “It’s
not that,” said Owen.
    He
told Georgiades about Nuri Pasha. With another agent he might not have been so
forthcoming. The Greek, however, was reliable.
    “Funny
friends the boy has,” said Georgiades, “for a son of Nuri Pasha.”
    “He
hates his father,” said Owen, “or so his father told me.”
    “His
father is not very popular with the Nationalists either,” said Georgiades,
touching his chin where the barber had skimped.
    “Yes.
Interesting, isn’t it?”
    “Want
me to put a man on him?”
    “Not
yet. You’ve got someone on the al Liwa offices?”
    “Selim. He’s quite bright.”
    “OK. Tell
him to keep an eye open for young Ahmed.” Georgiades nodded.
    “I’ll
do a bit of digging, too,” he said.
    The
tea-seller returned, piloting a small boy staggering under the weight of a huge
water-jar. Georgiades drained his glass.
    “May
the streets be full of trouble!” he said to the tea-seller. “So
that you can make your fortune.”
    “Thank
you,” said the tea-seller, “for your kind wishes.”

CHAPTER 4
    Owen
had arranged for the sergeant to be brought to the Kasr el Nil barracks and the
following morning he went down to interrogate him.
    He
met Mahmoud at the bridge and they walked into the barracks together.
    The
guards at the main gate eyed the Egyptian curiously but noncommittally and
pointed out the administration block, a large, old-fashioned building with
lattices and sentry-boxes.
    Their
way to it took them past a vast, sanded parade ground on which soldiers were
drilling. A squad