“Guzman’s?” said Owen incredulously.
“Yes,” said Ahmed, looking up. “Didn’t you know?”
CHAPTER 13
Afterwards, Owen understood. At the time he just had to act. He sent one of the policemen for Georgiades. With the others he headed straight for Guzman’s.
Georgiades reached him just as they got there.
“Here we are again,” he said. “What is it this time?”
“The same as it was last time,” said Owen savagely. “Only then we missed it.”
He told Georgiades.
“I always knew he was a bastard,” said Georgiades, “but that didn’t make him stand out.”
They went straight in. Farouz they caught almost at once. He was drinking water in the kitchen. He wasn’t even armed. Guzman got away. He was in a room upstairs and had more time. Later they learned he had taken refuge in the Syrian consulate.
McPhee exploded.
“Sir, I really must protest!” he said to Garvin.
“You don’t think I like it, do you?” asked Garvin.
They were in Garvin’s office later that afternoon. The soldiers were back in quarters, the Mahmal resting in a mosque, and the population at its siesta. In the evening they would come out on to the streets again and there might be trouble. Owen had police everywhere, though, and there were double guards on all military installations. He had great hopes of the day passing off without further incident.
John had rung him to give the Sirdar’s congratulations.
“He thinks you’re great,” said John. “He thinks he’s pretty great, too. Steadfastness under fire. Firm as a rock, cool as an iceberg. That sort of thing. Oh yes, and nothing actually happened.”
“To him,” said Owen.
“Well,” said John. “That’s what counts, isn’t it? Or isn’t it?”
The Agent’s praise had been more muted.
“He’s glad you got the men,” said Paul. “So am I. It might have become a habit.”
Garvin’s reaction was hard to tell. It was still unfinished business to him, probably, and he was waiting to see how it turned out.
“Can’t the Agent do something, sir?” asked McPhee.
“Like what? Protest?”
"I was hoping for something more, sir,” said McPhee.
“You mean ask the Sirdar to send in a regiment or something? He wants to do that already.”
“Well, we do run the country, sir,” said McPhee doggedly. “Sometimes I wonder if anybody runs the country,” said Garvin. “I certainly don’t.”
“Couldn’t he put pressure on the Khedive?”
“The Khedive’s delighted by the whole business. Anyway, Guzman is a Turk.”
“What’s he doing in the Syrian consulate, then?”
“He’s there because he’s a Turk.”
Since Egypt was still, legalistically, a Turkish possession, the Turks did not need diplomatic representation. If they could not work directly through the Khedive they drew on the services of friendly powers.
“You mean we can’t get at him at all, sir?” asked McPhee.
“That’s right,” said Garvin.
“I’ll get at him,” said Owen.
Ahmed was interrogated that evening. Interrogated, or questioned. Owen claimed that he was being interrogated, since he was held under security provisions and this was a military matter. Mahmoud pointed out that he was also being held in connection with the attack on Nuri, that this was a civil affair, and that the Parquet intended to question him. In the end they agreed that Ahmed was to be both interrogated and questioned.
Ahmed gave his answers in Owen’s office. He was no longer in a state of shock. Nevertheless, it was a very subdued young man who was brought in. He sat in a chair, looking down with unseeing eyes at his feet, waiting numbly for Owen to begin.
Owen, deliberately, did not begin at once. He had some papers on his desk-the estimates, alas, were still with him-which he pretended to go through, marking them with a pencil. Eventually he put the pencil down and said matter-of-factly:
“Did they tell you to stand there?”
Ahmed looked up startled.
“Outside the Beyt el Betani? That’s where you were, weren’t you?” “Yes,” said Ahmed.
“Giving out leaflets?”
“Yes.”
“Right by the water-cart?”
It was the water-cart which had taken the main force of the explosion, shielding the people on the pavement and accounting for the low level of serious injury.
“I think so,” said Ahmed.
“They told you to stand there?”
“Yes.”
“While someone else was going to stand further up the Sharia Mohammed Ali, just where the road narrows?”
“Yes.”
“You knew that, did you?”
“Yes.”
“Were they going to be in the street, do you know, or in a house?” “There was talk of a room.” ‘‘This was at the meeting before, when you were planning what you would do?”
“Yes.”
“Who was at the meeting?”
Ahmed hesitated.
“I don’t know,” he muttered finally, looking down.
“You were at the meeting, weren’t you?”
“Yes,” Ahmed admitted.
“Who else was there?”
Again the long hesitation. Owen was just making up his mind to press harder when Ahmed spoke with a rush.
“I was late,” he said, almost tearfully. “I had an essay to write. It had to be in the next day. He said it would be all right.”
“Guzman?”
“Yes.”
“If you came late?”
“Yes. They had nearly finished. Well, they had finished really. They were just waiting for me.”
“You couldn’t help being late.”
“No,” said Ahmed. “I had run all the way.”
“Were they angry?”
“No. They just-sort of joked.” He flushed and looked down. “What were they talking about when you arrived?”
“Nothing really. They were just waiting.”
“OK,” said Owen. “So what did they say to you?”
“They told me where to stand.”
“By Farouz?”
“Yes.”
“And give out leaflets?”
“Yes.”
“That was all?”
“Yes.” Ahmed looked at him. “I swear it,” he said.
Owen kept his face quite blank.
“And Farouz,” he asked, “what was Farouz to do?”
“To give out leaflets,” said Ahmed. “I thought…”
Owen waited.
“Really!” Ahmed insisted. He seemed suddenly on the verge of tears. "He had a bag over his shoulder. Like mine. I thought-I thought-” He stopped.
“Yes?” said Owen.
“That he had leaflets in it,” said Ahmed faintly. “I wondered why he wasn’t giving them to people. I thought perhaps he was saving them to throw before the soldiers.”
His voice faded away and came to a stop. Owen was beginning to think he had stopped for good when he started again.
“He didn’t throw,” Ahmed said. “Not for a long time. I kept wondering why.”
Again the voice faded.
Owen let the silence drag on for some time before he prompted. “But then he did throw.”
“Yes,” said Ahmed.
“You saw?”
“He put his hand in the bag and took something out. I couldn’t see. The crowd was very thick. He tried to throw, but the crowd-he was all hemmed in. It went up in the air. Not very far.”
Tears began to run down his cheeks.
“As Allah is my witness,” he whispered, “I did not know.”
Owen waited for him to say more. When he did not, he said: “Let Allah be your witness stilclass="underline" surely you knew what these men would do?”
Ahmed shook his head decisively.
“No,” he said. “No. No.”
“You knew they were Tademah.”
There was a long silence.
“Yes,” said Ahmed at last. “I knew.”
At this hour in the evening the office was completely quiet. There were a couple of orderlies at the end of the corridor and occasionally Owen could hear their low voices. The constable who had brought Ahmed up was probably with them. The only other noise was the buzzing of insects around the lamp.
Owen got up, walked across the room and poured himself a cup of water from the large earthenware jug standing in the window where the night air would cool it. All the offices had water. Yussuf refilled the jugs every morning. At this time of year, when Cairo was so hot, it was necessary.