“Did you get his belt?” asked Owen.
Georgiades held up a standard military belt.
“They did! Good!” said Owen with satisfaction.
Soldiers often sold their belts for drink. Since belts were military equipment they could then be charged with a different set of offences under military law.
He took the belt and inspected it almost as a matter of course. It was an offence to file the edges and point of the buckle; the belt made a nasty weapon in a brawl. Officers were required to check belts regularly. Owen looked to see if there was evidence of filing. There was.
“We’ll keep that,” he said to Georgiades.
He might be able to use it later.
Georgiades put the belt on under his trousers.
“When do you want to go in?” he asked.
Owen checked his watch. It was not long after two in the morning. The street was still quite busy. The houris were no longer on the balconies but busy inside. However, customers were still coming and going. Small groups of scarlet Tommies twined together staggered down the street singing drunkenly. When they got past the more selective establishments hands would very soon pull them into alleyways. As well, however, there were the usual Cairene clients; too many of them.
“We’ll wait,” Owen said.
By three the street was empty. The last Tommies had been swallowed up. The traffic now was out of the houses and not into them. The balconies were empty. The pimps were gone.
Owen signed with his hand.
Georgiades went up to the door and knocked upon it. A little shutter opened at eye level. Apparently Georgiades satisfied scrutiny, for the door was opened a crack. Someone big was standing inside. Owen saw Georgiades look up at him as he was talking. The door would be on a chain. It was easier to get it right open.
Owen saw some money change hands.
There was the sound of the chain being taken off. Georgiades stepped inside. A man fell suddenly against the door. One of the big Sudanis with Owen pulled him outside and hit him with his truncheon. Georgiades was holding the door open with his shoulders. The other Sudanis piled in.
Owen stepped in after them. A man was lying by the door dazed and holding his head. Two of the Sudanis were grappling with a huge Berberine. As Owen entered he saw the Berberine subside.
Georgiades had pushed on ahead. They were in a small, dark hall at the end of which was a door. He flung the door open. Beyond it was a large sunken room with couches and divans on which people were lying in various states of undress. There were glasses and bottles on the floor and one or two of the men were smoking from nargilehs.
A woman sprang up. She was wearing a long purple dress and her face was heavily made up. She called something and two men came out of an inner room holding thick sticks with spikes on them. Georgiades showed them his gun and they stopped. A Sudani hit one of the men across the arm with his truncheon. Then there was a crack and the spiked stick fell to the floor. The man doubled up, holding his arm. The other man ran off. The Sudani followed him.
Some of the people on the couches started getting up.
“Stay where you are!” Georgiades commanded.
He looked round the room. The sergeant wasn’t there.
“Upstairs!” he said, and nodded to the Sudanis.
The madam advanced on him, her eyes blazing.
“What is this?” she said. “Who are you?”
Georgiades ignored her.
She caught one of the Sudanis as he went by.
“Who is this?” she hissed.
“The Mamur Zapt,” said the man, and went out through the door.
The woman saw Owen.
“Vous etes le Mamur Zapt?”
“Oui, madame. ”
“Qu ’ est ce que vous faites ici?” she demanded, and launched on a bitter tirade. Owen pushed her away.
The people on the couches sat frozen. One of the girls began to cry.
Georgiades came in.
“He’s upstairs,” he said.
Owen followed him. There was a small landing at the top of the stairs which gave on to a series of rooms. Georgiades went into one of these.
There was a large bed with no covers. On it were two women, one black, one white, both naked, and the sergeant, dressed only in a shirt. He was trying to sit up.
“What the hell’s this?” he said thickly.
Georgiades looked at Owen. Owen nodded.
“Get the cuffs on him,” he said.
A big Sudani yanked the sergeant off the bed in a single movement. The sergeant swore and stood swaying. Georgiades snapped the cuffs on. The sergeant looked at them, bewildered. He had difficulty in focusing his eyes.
One of the girls gestured at his trousers, which had been flung over a chair.
“Take too long,” said Georgiades.
The girl shrugged, curled herself up and lay there watching.
The Sudanis started hustling the sergeant out. As they got him to the door he suddenly bent over and vomited.
They had to wait while he leaned against the door post groaning and retching.
The madam came up the stairs.
“I will complain,” she said. “You have no right.”
Her eyes took in the sergeant.
“Pig!” she said. “Cochon.”
In one of the rooms off the landing a woman cried out.
The sergeant brought himself upright. His eyes suddenly focused on Owen.
“Seen you before,” he muttered.
One of the Sudanis pulled at him. The sergeant shook him off.
“Who the hell are you?” he said. “Seen you before.”
Two Sudanis got a grip on him and began to drag him down the stairs.
“Mon dieu!” said the madam. “C’est affreux!” She tried to intercept Owen. “I will tell the consul,” she said. “You cannot do this.”
The sergeant collapsed at the bottom of the stairs, white-faced and groaning.
“Take him out!” said Georgiades.
One of the Sudanis caught hold of the sergeant by the collar and tried to haul him upright. The collar tore and the sergeant fell back. Another Sudani picked him up by the armpits and propped him against the stairs. The sergeant looked about him, confused.
“Seen you before,” he said.
The Sudanis pulled him towards the door. Half way across the room he was sick again.
“Cochon! Cochon!” the madam cried.
A grey-haired man came in through the door. He was wearing a silk dressing-gown and had plainly just got out of bed.
“I protest!” he said. “These are Syrian citizens!”
“This one?” asked Georgiades, pointing to the sergeant.
“That one, too,” said the grey-haired man.
"He’s a British soldier,” said Georgiades.
The sergeant lifted his head. “I fucking am,” he said.
He wrenched himself free from the Sudanis, put his head down and charged at the grey-haired man. Georgiades tripped him up and the Sudanis fell on top of him.
“Get him out, for Christ’s sake,” said Owen.
The Sudanis picked themselves up. The sergeant lay motionless on the floor. Another Sudani came across and helped them to carry him out.
The madam caught the grey-haired man by the sleeve and whispered to him. He came up to Owen.
“I protest!” he said. “This is a gross infringement of our nation’s rights under the Capitulations.”
“Who are you?” asked Owen.
The man drew himself up. “I am a member of the Syrian consular staff.”
He fumbled in the pocket of his dressing-gown and produced a printed slip.
“Here is my card,” he said with dignity.
Owen ignored it.
“I am the Mamur Zapt,” he said. “I have right of entry into all premises.”
“Under protest,” said the man. “My country does not accept that interpretation.”
“Too bad,” said Owen, and turned away.
The sergeant was out of the house now.