"You do seem to be having trouble with your acquaintances,” said John.
“When did you get the message?”
“About an hour ago.”
“He must have rung as soon as he got out of my office. The bastard!”
“I take it,” said John, drying his hands, “that the poor kidnapped soldier is a certain ex-sergeant from Kantara?”
“You take it rightly.”
“In that case,” said John, "I wish to know no more. What I can tell you in confidence is that unfortunately I was unable to pass the message on before lunch as I was so busy. Naturally I shall inform my superiors as soon as possible. However, it may be that I shall be detained at lunch by someone who insists on buying me a drink and so I shall miss the afternoon mail with my memo. In which case it would only reach them tomorrow morning.”
“You’re a pal,” said Owen.
“Would it help?”
“It would. It really would.”
“Mind! Till tomorrow only!”
“That should be long enough.”
“In any case,” said John, “it would be bad for the Sirdar’s digestion if he was told that sort of thing just after lunch.”
“We wouldn’t want that to happen. But now, about your own digestion-?”
“A drink would go down very nicely. Yes, please.”
Owen called in at the office after his swim. Nikos was still there. “I don’t understand it,” he said when Owen told him about Guzman’s message. “Why would he do a thing like that?”
“Because he’s a nasty bastard, that’s why!” said Owen with feeling. Nikos shook his head. “That wouldn’t be the only reason.”
“What other reason could there be?”
“I don’t know,” said Nikos.
Owen left him thinking and went on into his own room. Nikos hated things to be untidy, unexplained. He would worry at this like a terrier with a bone.
Some time later he came into Owen’s room.
“Maybe he’s afraid,” he said.
“Afraid? What of?”
“You. Talking to the sergeant. He thinks you might find out something.”
“But why tip off the Army?”
“So that you get less time to talk.”
He collected the papers from Owen’s out-tray and went back into the main office. When Owen looked in half an hour later he had gone home.
Owen himself worked on till well after midnight. Then he called for the sergeant. The sergeant had been in the caracol for over twenty-four hours now; and this time he gave Owen the name he wanted.
CHAPTER 8
“I think we ought to go in,” said McPhee.
“There’s no real evidence,” Garvin objected. “Nothing to link him with the grenades.”
“There’s plenty to link him with other stuff.”
“Plenty?”
“That sergeant said it was a recognized route. They’ve been using that chap for years.”
“If what the sergeant says is true,” said Garvin, “and we know him to be a liar.”
“He wasn’t lying this time,” said Owen.
“It’s the lead we wanted,” said McPhee. “What are we waiting for?”
“We’re waiting for something real,” said Garvin.
“Isn’t the box something real?”
“There are boxes going in and out of that place all the time.”
“Ali says he knows those and it wasn’t one of them,” said Owen. “How can he know all the boxes? What about a new supplier?” “He was sure.”
“Might be anything,” said Garvin dismissively. “A new hat for his wife, goods for the shop. We can’t go in just on the word of a street beggar.”
“And of a sergeant,” said McPhee.
“A convicted criminal. Lying to save his skin.”
“Not to save his skin,” Owen pointed out.
“All right, then,” said Garvin. “Lying because he’s been terrified out of his wits. And that’s something else I want to speak to you about.”
“We wouldn’t have found out any other way,” said McPhee loyally, and bore without flinching the look Garvin gave him.
“The question is,” said Garvin, “now that we’ve got some real information-”
Owen did not like the way Garvin kept emphasizing the word “real” today.
“-how do we use it? Wouldn’t it be best simply to put a man on the shop and keep it under surveillance?”
“We don’t have the time,” said Owen. “The Carpet’s next week.” “Suppose the grenades are still on their way?” asked Garvin. “Suppose they haven’t got there yet? Don’t we just scare whoever-it-is off?”
“Suppose they’ve already passed through?” said Owen.
“Well,” said Garvin, “in that case we’ve lost them already. Going in wouldn’t help.”
“We might pick up something,” said McPhee.
“And at least we’d know,” said Owen.
“Suppose they’re there all the time,” said McPhee, “ while we’re mucking around.”
“And suppose they’ll soon be not there,” added Owen, “ if we go on mucking around. Boxes come out as well as go in.”
“Yes,” said Garvin. “I’ll admit that’s a worry.”
He rested his chin on his hand and thought.
“All the same,” he said, “it’s not much to go on. If it wasn’t grenades I wouldn’t look at it.”
“But it is grenades,” said McPhee, “and the Carpet is next week.” “We don’t know-” Garvin began, and then stopped. He thought for a little longer and then he looked at Owen.
“OK,” he said, “you can go in. But on your head be it.”
It was a typical Garvin ending and Owen wanted to ask what he meant, though he had an uneasy feeling that he knew what was meant. McPhee, however, was pleased.
“Good, sir,” he said. “When?”
“This afternoon,” said Owen, “ when everybody’s asleep.”
“Not tonight?” asked Garvin.
“You can see better in the day,” said Owen.
Garvin shrugged.
“All right, then,” he said. “Only yoti’ll have to move fast. He’s a Syrian and he’ll have someone round from the consulate in a flash of lightning. You won’t even get a chance to question him.”
“I’ll see I get a chance to question him,” said Owen.
Soon after two, when the sun had driven people from the streets and most Cairenes were settling deeply into their siesta, Owen’s men went in.
The shutters had been half drawn across the front of the shop to give shade and to symbolize recess but there was a gap in the middle through which the men stepped. An assistant was asleep on the floor, curled up among the brassware. He opened his eyes as the men came in, blinked and then sat bolt upright. One of the men picked him up by the scruff of the neck and put him in a corner, where he was soon joined by two other startled and sleepy assistants brought through from the separate servants’ quarters at the rear of the house.
The family lived above the shop. The first floor contained the dining-room and a surprisingly luxurious living-room, with a tiled floor and heavy, rich carpets on the walls. Above these were the bedrooms, where the man whose name Owen had been given slept with his wife and their five children. Above this again was the room at the front with five latticed windows where the wife’s mother slept and spent most of her days, together with a warren of small storerooms.
Georgiades went straight to these, reasoning that the grenades would most likely be stored in the private part of the house and in a room rarely used by the family. Abdul Kassem, one of his most experienced men, went through to the back of the shop where goods awaiting unpacking or despatch were stored and began to search meticulously through the boxes.
The other men fanned out through the house. The first thing was to station a man at every intersection, where one floor gave on to another, or one set of rooms to an independent suite. In that way if anyone made a panic move in one particular direction he would be remarked and intercepted. After that the men began to move efficiently through each room.
McPhee, nominally under Owen’s orders for the occasion, since the police did not possess right of entry without a warrant but the Mamur
Zapt did, began to ferret around the shop itself, poking his stick particularly under the heavy shelving which supported the goods.