Owen made his phone call. Garvin saw Harry and gave the deportation order into Owen’s own hands. The order was served immediately on a Guzman who for once was taken by surprise. A handful of picked men escorted him to the docks and put him on an Istanbul-bound steamer where he was placed at once in a locked cabin with a man, again picked, outside the door. And within an hour the steamer was nosing out into the Mediterranean.
Owen and Georgiades watched it go.
“Suleiman will be all right,” said Georgiades. “The problems will start at the other end.”
“They’ll be problems for Guzman,” said Owen.
When Owen got back to Cairo he called in Nuri to see him. That was twice in two days and Nikos was doubly impressed.
Nuri, however, was not surprised.
“It’s always best to move fast in these matters,” he said.
“How fast we move depends on you,” said Owen.
“Ah?”
Nuri settled himself back in the chair to hear the terms of the deal. “In things like this,” said Owen, “the pawns are not important.” “Just so,” said Nuri, “the Mustafas.”
“The Ahmeds.”
Nuri was a little surprised at the classification but saw that it had potential and nodded polite agreement.
“What matters,” said Owen, “are the persons moving the pawns.” Nuri looked at Owen quickly but said nothing. Perhaps he feared that this extension of the classification was directed at him.
“Take the attack on you, for instance,” said Owen. “Mustafa was only a tool. So was Ahmed. A more complex one, possibly, but still only a tool. He took some things on himself-”
“Foolishly.”
“Foolishly,” Owen agreed, “but generously. He wanted to put the world to rights-”
“He’s young,” said Nuri, but looked pleased.
“-but basically he was being used. It’s the people who were using him that I’m concerned with.”
“Yes?”
“I was wondering how you felt about Guzman.”
Nuri took his time about replying. Owen knew that he was figuring out all the angles.
“Guzman is a dangerous man,” he said eventually.
“Yes. Did you know how dangerous?”
Nuri shook his head.
“No,” he said. “He’s always been secretive. I knew he was fanatical and suspected he was extremist. But I did not imagine that he was so actively involved.”
“You worked with him?”
“Well,” said Nuri, “alongside him. We were never close.” “Rivals?”
“You could call it that.”
“He let Ahmed have the gun. Is that his way with rivals?”
Nuri was silent.
“I’m not saying he meant Mustafa to kill you,” said Owen, “but I don’t think he would have minded if he had.”
Nuri smiled wintrily.
“I think that is an accurate assessment,” he agreed.
“Why is that?” asked Owen. “Is he like that with everybody or has he got something particular against you?”
"Both,” said Nuri. “He is like that with everybody and he has something particular against me.”
“And you’re not going to tell me what that something particular is.” “No,” said Nuri. “I am not.”
They both laughed.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Owen, “because I think I know it already.” “Ah!” said Nuri, and laughed, but took it in.
“Your negotiations with Abdul Murr.”
Nuri said nothing; but Owen saw that the remark registered. “However,” he said, “ that is not my concern at the moment. What I want to know is this: is he going to try again? More seriously this time?”
“To kill me?” Nuri’s eyes rested thoughtfully on the ivory carving of his stick. “Possibly,” he acknowledged, looking up at Owen.
“I was wondering if it would be a good idea to take measures,” said Owen.
Nuri’s eyes met his unblinkingly.
“That could be arranged,” he said quietly.
Owen saw that Nuri had misunderstood him.
“Not that,” he said.
“Oh?”
“Guzman left the country this morning.”
“Really?” said Nuri, surprised. “Already? How disappointing!” “Not very,” said Owen. “We pushed him. We put him on a boat. The San Demetriou. It left Alexandria this morning.”
Nuri looked puzzled.
“Then-?”
“For Istanbul. He’s in a locked cabin and will stay there until he arrives.”
Nuri still looked puzzled.
“We thought the Sultan might like to know.”
Nuri’s face cleared.
“Ah!” he said. "I am beginning to understand.”
“Someone, of course, would need to let him know. Privately. And without going through too many people.”
"I understand now exactly,” said Nuri.
He rose to his feet and held out his hand.
“A pleasure!” he said. “A real pleasure!”
As he got to the door he looked back.
“And my stupid son?” he asked.
“What you were suggesting the other day,” said Owen, “sounds entirely reasonable.”
The next person to call on the Mamur Zapt was Fakhri.
He came at Owen’s request and was more than a little nervous. Owen, however, held out a welcoming hand.
“I’m hoping you might be able to help me,” he said.
“You want me to help you?” asked Fakhri.
“That’s right,” Owen agreed amiably.
Fakhri appeared even more nervous.
“I am, of course, at your service,” he said cautiously.
“I’d like an article placed,” said Owen, “somewhere where political people will read it.”
“What sort of article?”
“Oh, just a review of the current political scene. It would, however, refer in passing to attempts by Nuri Pasha to form an alliance with moderate elements in the Nationalist Party and say that such attempts showed every sign of succeeding.”
“Look,” said Fakhri, “if we’d wanted to publish an article like that we could have done so months ago.”
“I know,” said Owen.
“But we didn’t. And do you know why? Because of the harm it would do. It would play straight into the hands of extremists like el Gazzari and Jemal.”
“I know,” said Owen.
“You know?” said Fakhri, staring. “Then why do you want it? It would mean the end of Abdul Murr-of perhaps the last real chance of the Nationalists developing as a moderate Parliamentary party.”
“I know.”
‘‘Then why-?”
Fakhri stopped as realization dawned.
‘‘I see,” he said. “You don’t want a moderate Parliamentary party.” “Not a strong one.”
“You’d prefer the Nationalists to be in the hands of the extremists because that would mean they would be discredited.”
“And divided,” said Owen.
“So that the British could go on ruling.”
“The Khedive rules, we only advise.”
Fakhri swallowed. “I don’t like it,” he said.
“Why not?” asked Owen. “Other moderates will benefit if the Nationalists become extremist.”
“As you very well know,” said Fakhri bitterly, “we are just as divided.”
“This is your chance, then.”
“You may find it hard to believe this,” said Fakhri, “but I care more about seeing parliamentary democracy established in Egypt than I do about my own political career.”
“Very fine,” said Owen, “but not very realistic.”
Fakhri sat quiet.
“I am sorry,” he said at last, “but I cannot help you.”
“With the article? A pity. It won’t make any difference, you know. I shall find another way of placing it.”
“I would prefer not to be involved.”
“You’re already involved,” said Owen. “You involved yourself. Remember?”
“And this is the punishment?”
“Call it a warning,” said Owen.
“I’d rather go to prison,” said Fakhri with dignity.
“It would be a waste. A mere gesture.”
“And the Egyptians are prone to gestures. I still think it’s one I’d like to make.”
Owen let him go and Nikos showed him out. Afterwards, Georgiades came into the room.
“I like that little man,” said Georgiades, who had been listening outside. “What are you going to do with him?”
“Nothing.”
“The article?” “I’ll place it somewhere else.”