“I shall complain to the Agent,” said the grey-haired man. “This is Syrian territory and these are Syrian subjects.”
He had to earn his money. Half the brothels in Cairo, and all the gambling saloons, retained a tame consular official to use in case of emergencies. Under the Capitulations, privileges granted to European powers by successive Ottoman rulers, foreigners were granted immunity from Egyptian law. They could not even be charged unless it could be proved that they had committed an offence not under Egyptian law but in terms of the law of their own native countries. Since nationality was elastic at the best of times in the Levant, it was very hard to convict anyone at all; except, of course, for the poorer Egyptians.
It was a system which commercially inclined Cairenes knew exactly how to turn to advantage, and which drove Garvin and McPhee to despair.
“One of them is a British subject,” said Owen, “and he has been robbed.”
He followed Georgiades out of the house. They had given the Sudanis enough time now to be well on their way.
Beneath the Mamur Zapt’s office was a whole row of cells, but Owen did not want the sergeant put in one of them. He was taken instead to a public prison in the Hosh Sharkawiyeh. Owen had chosen it because it was a caracol, a traditional native lock-up. It consisted of a single long room. There were no windows, just two narrow slits high up for ventilation. Most air and what light there was came in through the heavy wooden bars of the grille-like door, through which prisoners could look up at the busy street outside. The prison stood at the corner of an old square and had either been deliberately built to be below ground level or else, like some of the other buildings in the square, had been constructed at a time when the level was generally lower.
There were fifteen prisoners in the cell, not many by Egyptian standards, but crowded enough. Foetid air reached up to Owen as the keeper unbolted the door. Some of the inmates had been confined for the same reason as the sergeant, and, mixed with the stale air, there was a strong smell of excrement and vomit.
The Sudanis threw the sergeant in and helped the keeper to slide back the heavy bolts.
“The Army is not going to like this,” said Georgiades.
“No,” agreed Owen, “it is not.”
Before they left he gave certain instructions to the keeper. They were to see the sergeant had water, to give him bread, to keep an eye open in case there was trouble between him and the other prisoners, but otherwise on no account to interfere.
That should be enough, thought Owen.
Owen went home and slept late. When he got in to the office the next morning Nikos was already at his desk.
“There’s someone to see you,” he said. “A friend of yours. He's been waiting a long time.”
“Oh,” said Owen. “Where is he?”
Nikos pointed along the corridor. From McPhee’s room came the sound of voices. McPhee’s. Guzman’s.
“If that bugger doesn’t get off my back,” said Owen, “I’ll bloody fix him.”
“The way you did Brooker?” asked Nikos, keeping his eyes firmly on the papers in front of him.
Owen went into his office. A little later McPhee stuck his head in, looking hot and bothered.
“Guzman Bey is here,” he said. “He’s got a complaint.” “Another?”
Owen put his pencil down, closed the file he was working on and rose to greet Guzman as McPhee ushered him in.
“Captain Owen!” Guzman spoke without preamble. “I wish to protest!”
“Really?” said Owen. “What about?”
“Your high-handed action last night. The Khedive has received a formal complaint from the Syrian ambassador.”
“On what grounds?”
“That you forcibly and illegally entered premises belonging to a Syrian citizen-”
“A brothel.”
“-and abducted a guest present on the premises.”
“A customer. A British subject.”
“A British soldier. Characteristically engaged.”
“But British. And therefore no concern of the ambassador’s.”
Nor of the Khedive’s, he nearly added.
“Syrian rights have been infringed. That is the concern of the ambassador.”
Owen reflected. He could simply tell Guzman to go and jump in the Nile. Or he could be more politic. In Cairo it was nearly always best to be more politic. He adopted a reasonable tone..
“At the time of entry the premises were not known to be foreign,” he said. “They were known only to be a particularly vicious brothel. I must say, I find it a little surprising that the ambassador should be defending the rights of someone engaged in conducting such a place!” “Perhaps,” said Guzman drily, “he was unaware of the use to which the premises were put.”
Owen was not sure that the words were meant ironically. Guzman spoke as flatly as he usually did; but was there a glint of humour? If so, it did not survive long.
“The fact remains,” said Guzman, “that Syrian rights have been infringed and the Khedive embarrassed.”
Owen decided to be politic still.
“If the Khedive has been embarrassed,” he said smoothly, “it was, of course, inadvertently on our part. I hope you will convey my personal apologies.”
Guzman was taken aback by this; indeed he appeared slightly put out. He hesitated, as if uncertain about prolonging the interview, and then said, almost tentatively: “The soldier-?”
“Will be dealt with by the Army,” said Owen heartily.
He edged towards the door. Guzman, however, ignored the hint. “But will he?” he asked suddenly.
“Will he — ”
“Be dealt with by the Army?”
“Of course.”
“Will it,” said Guzman meaningfully, “get the chance?”
Owen was caught slightly off balance.
“I don’t quite follow you.”
“I understand,” said Guzman, “that the man is still in your custody.”
“Ah yes,” said Owen, recovering, “but that is only temporarily.” “How temporary?”
“Very temporary,” said Owen firmly. He was not going to be steam-rollered by Guzman.
“May I ask why you are holding him?”
“I just want to ask him a few questions.”
“About-?” “Oh, military matters,” he said vaguely, edging further towards the door.
“Military matters?” Guzman looked puzzled. “But surely that is the concern of the Army?”
Owen realized that he had been cornered again.
“Some are my concern,” he said off-handedly.
“Ah! Security!”
Owen smiled politely, and uninformatively. He took up a stance by the door. Guzman did not appear to notice. He seemed sunk in thought.
“This man you are holding-”
“Yes?”
“What precisely-?”
“I am afraid I am not at liberty to tell you that.”
Guzman was still thinking.
“Was he at the Kantara barracks?” he asked.
Owen continued to smile politely but did not reply.
Guzman thought again. Then he made up his mind.
“I would like to see him,” he said abruptly.
“That,” said Owen, “would not be possible.”
After Guzman had gone, Nikos came back into the room.
“That was odd,” he said. “Why is he so interested?”
“In the sergeant, you mean? Don’t know. For the same reason as us, perhaps.”
“Perhaps,” said Nikos, and went away again still looking thoughtful.
Owen opened his file and worked steadily till lunch. Then he went to the club. In the cloakroom he ran into his friend John, the Sirdar’s aide.
“I don’t want to be seen with you!” his friend said, pretending flight.
“Why not?”
“You’re always doing horrid things to the Army.”
“What am I doing now?”
“Kidnapping its soldiers. Or so I am informed.”
Owen was surprised.
“Christ! That’s quick!” he said. “Who informed you?”
“Someone from the Khediviate.”
“Really?” A nasty suspicion dawned in Owen’s mind. “You don’t, by chance, happen to know his name?”
"He was unwilling to give it but I extracted it. Guzman.” "Guzman! The bastard!”