And then, of course, there was the Mamur Zapt.
That was the reality. But it did not mean that appearances could be dispensed with. Egypt was still in principle a sovereign state, the Khedive still an independent sovereign. The British presence needed explaining.
The British story was that they were there by invitation and on a temporary basis. They would withdraw once Egypt’s finances were sorted out. Only they had been there for thirty years now.
His Majesty’s Government thought it best, in the circumstances, to emphasize that the British role in Egypt was purely an advisory one. The British Agent merely suggested, never instructed; the “advisers” made “recommendations,” not decisions; and the Army was kept offstage. Appearances were important.
And so it would not do for the students to demonstrate outside the Palace. It would give all sorts of wrong impressions.
Nikos, of course, understood all this perfectly well. Indeed, like many sophisticated Cairenes, he rather enjoyed the ambiguities of the situation. Not all Egyptians, naturally, had such a developed taste for irony.
Curiously, the British themselves were not entirely at home with the position either. It was too complicated for the military and, even under Cromer’s strong hand, there was always tension between the civil
Administration, conscious of the diplomatic need to preserve appearances, and the Army, impatient to cut through the web of subtleties, evasions and unstated limitations.
The Mamur Zapt inhabited the shadow between the two.
“Keep McPhee informed,” he told Nikos. “I’m going out later.”
He had an appointment with Mahmoud.
As Nikos left he nearly collided in the doorway with Yussuf, who spun the tray away just in time. Clicking his tongue at the departing Nikos, he slid the tray on to Owen’s desk.
“The bimbashi has a visitor,” he announced. Yussuf was a great purveyor of news. “He told me to bring the cups.”
Like McPhee, Owen had his own service-issue mug, which Yussuf now half-filled with coffee. When they had visitors a proper set of cups was produced.
“Oh,” said Owen, and then, pretending interest so as not to hurt Yussuf’s feelings, “who is he?”
“From the Palace, I think,” said Yussuf, gratified. “The bimbashi looked unhappy."
McPhee always found relations with the Khedive’s staff very difficult. On the one hand, he had great respect for royalty, even foreign royalty; on the other, he knew that not all the Khedive’s requests were to be met. Some were acceptable to the British Agent, others were not, and McPhee lacked the political sense to know which was which. The adroit politicians of the Khedive’s personal staff ran rings round him, forever laying traps which he was forever falling into.
Owen was responsible through Garvin directly to the British Agent and had little to do with the Khediviate, something for which he was very grateful.
On this occasion, however, he was unable to keep out. Shortly after he had heard Yussuf’s slippers slapping away down the corridor, he heard them slap-slapping back. Yussuf appeared in the doorway.
“The Bimbashi would like you to join him,” he recited.
He saw that Owen had not finished his coffee.
“I bring you a cup,” he said.
The man from the Khedive was a Turk in his late fifties, with close-cropped hair and a grey, humourless face.
"Guzman Bey,” said McPhee.
He introduced Owen as the Mamur Zapt. The other barely nodded. Owen returned the greeting as indifferently as it was given.
McPhee sat stiff and uncomfortable.
“It’s about Nuri Pasha,” he said to Owen. “The Khedive is very concerned.”
“Naturally,” said Owen.
“He would like to know what progress has been made.”
“It’s very early days yet,” said Owen, “but I believe the Parquet have the matter well in hand.”
“What progress?” said the man harshly.
“A man is held. He has confessed.”
Guzman made a gesture of dismissal.
“The others?” he said.
“The Parquet has only just begun its investigations,” Owen pointed out.
“The Parquet!” said the man impatiently. “And you? The Mamur Zapt?”
“The case is primarily the concern of the Parquet,” said Owen. “I am interested only in security aspects.”
"Precisely. That is what interests the Khedive.”
“I am following the case,” said Owen.
“No progress has been made?”
“As I said-” Owen began.
The man cut him short. “The British are responsible for security,” he said to McPhee. “What sort of security is this when a statesman like Nuri Pasha is gunned down in the street?”
“He was not gunned down,” said Owen.
"Thanks to Allah,” said the man. “Not to you.”
Owen was not going to be provoked.
“The Khedive has many valued friends and allies,” he said evenly. “It is not easy to protect them all.”
“Why should they need protection?” said the Turk. “That is the question you have to ask.”
“That is the question the Khedive has to ask,” said Owen, counterattacking.
The man gave a short bark of a laugh.
“If he is not popular,” he said, “then it is because he shares the unpopularity of the British.”
Owen drank up his coffee.
“Ah,” he said, “I am afraid that is a problem I cannot help you with.” He stood up to go. “If you will excuse-”
“The Khedive wants reports.”
“Reports?” “Daily. On the progress you are making in tracking down Nuri Pasha’s killers.”
“That is a matter for the Parquet.”
“And the Mamur Zapt. Or so you said.”
“Security aspects only.”
“Security,” said the Turk, “is what the Khedive is especially interested in.”
Owen pulled himself together.
“If the Khedive would genuinely like reports,” he said, “then he shall certainly have them.”
“Send them to me,” said Guzman. “Directly.”
“Very well,” said Owen. “I’ll see you get them directly from the Agent.”
“The Khedive has spoken to the Agent. Directly to me. With a copy to the Agent.”
Owen found the Turk watching him closely. He put on a charming smile.
“Of course,” he said.
“Good!” said the Turk. “See to it.” And he walked out.
McPhee swore softly to himself.
"See to it!” he reported. “I’ll bloody see to him. Just wait till I get to Garvin!”
“He’s very confident,” said Owen. “He must have got it fixed already.”
“I'll bloody unfix it, then. Or Garvin will. We can’t have the Mamur Zapt reporting to the bloody Khedive or where the hell will we be?” Owen was thinking.
“Gorst must have agreed.”
“The stupid bastard!”
There was little liking among the old hands for the liberal Gorst. “If he has agreed,” said Owen, “Garvin will find it hard to get him to change his mind.”
“Stupid bastard!” said McPhee again. He got up. “I’ll go straight to Garvin.”
“Don’t let it worry you too much,” said Owen.
McPhee stopped and turned and opened his mouth.
“If the Khedive wants reports,” said Owen, “he can have them.” He winked deliberately.
“All the same,” said McPhee, soothed, “it’s the principle-” Walking back down the corridor Owen thought that it was doubly advisable that no students should get into Abdin Square.
“Yes,” said Mahmoud. "The Khedive has been on to us, too.”
They were sitting outside an Arab cafe in one of the small streets off the Place Bab el Khalk. The cafe was tiny, with one dark inner room in which several Arabs were sitting smoking from nargilehs, the traditional native water pipe, with its hose and water-jar, too cumbersome to be carried around so hired out at cafes. Outside in the street was a solitary table drawn back into the shade of the wall. The cafe was midway between the Parquet and Owen’s office off the Bab el Khalk: on neutral ground.
“Reports?”
Mahmoud nodded. “Daily.”
“Why is he so worried?” asked Owen.