The Mamur Zapt, head of Cairo's CID in the heyday of (the indirect) British rule, focused on political, not police, matters. With the bustling new century, the loosening of imperial ties, and the rise of nationalism, his was a busy office. The attempted assassination of a veteran politician raises the spectre of a major terrorist statement at the capital's principal religious festival where the faithful celebrate the Return of the Holy Carpet from Mecca. Easily navigating multiple nationalities, three principal languages, and four competing legal systems, not to mention the intricacies of shadow and actual governments, Captain Owen, the Welsh incumbent, bolsters the Mamur Zapt's office with the aid of a host of memorable characters. Michael Pearce grew up in the (then) Anglo-Egyptian Sudan among the political and other tensions he draws on for his books. He returned there later to teach and retains a human rights interest in the area. His career has followed the standard academic rake’s progress from teaching to writing to administration. He finds international politics a pallid imitation of academic ones. The Mamur Zapt & the Return of the Carpet A Mamur Zapt Mystery By Michael Pearce Poisoned Pen Press Copyright © 2012 Michael Pearce All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-1-4642-0064-9 CHAPTER 1 The Mamur Zapt was sitting in his office one morning when his orderly, Yussuf, burst into the room. "Come quickly, effendi!" he said. "Bimbashi McPhee wants you at once. At once! Nuri Pasha has been killed!" This was an exaggeration, for the attempt to assassinate the veteran politician had not succeeded; but Yussuf was not one for pedestrian detail. However, along the corridor Owen could hear the assistant commandant's voice raised critically, so he put a paperweight on the estimates to prevent them from being blown all over the office by the fan, and rose reluctantly to his feet. There was an Egyptian in McPhee's room. He was short and plump and apparently very agitated. McPhee was pouring him a glass of water, which he took with effusive thanks and much mopping of his brow. From behind the silk handkerchief steady brown eyes registered Owen's arrival. "Ah!" said McPhee, catching sight of Owen as he turned: "Captain Cadwallader Owen." This, too, was an exaggeration. A romantic Welsh mother had insisted on preserving a remote family connection through the middle name, and Owen had once made the mistake of signing his name in full in McPhee's presence. The Scotsman, another romantic, had ever afterwards insisted on using both barrels. "Do you know Fakhri Bey? No?" They shook hands. "Fakhri Bey was passing when it happened." "I was in an arabeah," the Egyptian explained. "There was nothing I could do. So I told the driver to drive on and came straight here." "I'm very glad you did," said McPhee. "We'll get there right away." He picked up his sun helmet. "In fact, if you'll excuse us —" "Of course. Of course," the other protested. They set off down the corridor. "You don't want me, do you?" asked Owen. Normally the Mamur Zapt, as head of the Political Branch, did not reckon to concern himself with routine killings. "Certainly I do," said McPhee over his shoulder. Owen would have preferred to have carried on with the estimates. They were not especially complex but required a certain attention, and he had set aside the morning for that purpose. His predecessor-but-one had been dismissed for corruption and Owen was sensitive on financial matters. However, he collected his helmet and joined McPhee at the front of the building. The large square of the Bab el Khalk was empty of transport except for one carriage which Fakhri Bey was just getting into. He stopped as he saw them. "You would be very welcome to share my arabeah," he said. "May we?" said McPhee. "There doesn't seem to be any other. It would be taking you back —" "Not at all," said Fakhri. "It would be a pleasure." The carriage was one of those with two horses and could take three passengers at a pinch. McPhee and Owen wedged themselves in around Fakhri, and the driver, after a great display of urgency, managed to get the horses going at a steady amble along the broad thoroughfare of the Sharia Mohammed Ali. "And now," said Owen, "perhaps you could tell me exactly what happened where." "Nuri Pasha was shot," said Fakhri. "It was dreadful. I am so sorry. He was a friend of mine, you know," he said, glancing sideways at Owen. "A good chap," said McPhee supportively, but then McPhee considered many people to be good chaps whom Owen knew to be consummate rogues. "And where did all this happen?" he asked. "In the Place de l'Opéra," said Fakhri, "right in front of my eyes. I could not believe it. I could not believe it." "You actually saw the shooting?" asked Owen, putting a heavy accent, and not too sceptical a one he hoped, on the word "saw." "Yes," said Fakhri. "Yes, I did." He hesitated. "Or, at least, I thought I did. I was sure I did." Again the sidelon