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approached them along the edge of the square. As it passed,
the drilling sergeant gave them an eyes-right. Owen, who was
in Army uniform, acknowledged with a salute. His eye took in their hot,
strained faces. New from England, he thought; and fairly new to the Army, too,
judging by their awkwardness.
The
sentry-boxes and lattices were touched up with white, but inside the
administration block everything was a darker, more restful green. A huge
three-bladed fan rotated above the heads of the clerks bent at their desks in
the orderly room.
One
of the clerks collected the passes from Owen and disappeared into an inner
room. A moment or two later a corporal came out with them in his hand, greeted
Owen and called to a bearer squatting on the floor by the door. The man hurried
out.
“It’s
all laid on, sir,” said the corporal. “The escort got in about half an hour ago
and is waiting in the guard-room. They’ll bring him over directly.”
“Fine,”
said Owen. “Have you got a suitable room?”
“There’s
one we normally use for this sort of thing,” said the corporal. “I’ll take you,
sir.”
He
registered Mahmoud’s presence.
“Mr.
el Zaki,” said Owen. “From the Parquet.”
“Good
morning, sir,” said the corporal politely.
“I’d
like him to listen in.”
“Oh,”
said the corporal, and hesitated. “A bit difficult, sir,” he said, after a
moment.
“I
don’t want anything too special,” said Owen. “Is there a room next door? Yes?
Well, stick a chair in that and leave the door open. That should be enough.”
“Yes,
sir,” said the corporal, but looked unhappy. His eyes sent desperate signals to
Owen, which Owen refused to read. He knew very well what the trouble was. The
Army guarded its privileges jealously. One of those was that its soldiers were
subject to no legal processes but its own. It would not allow its men to be
brought before any civilians, much less Egyptian civilians.
“Mr.
el Zaki will not be actually present,” he pointed out helpfully.
“I—I
know, sir,” said the corporal, thinking hard.
“You
have the passes.”
“Yes, sir.” The corporal
glanced at them uncomfortably. “They— they don’t actually say, sir—” he began
with a rush and then stopped.
“They
wouldn’t,” said Owen. He was on tricky ground. He could not insist. “But they
do authorize Mr. el Zaki to come with me. And the reason for that is plain,
Corporal,” he added, with just a little amount of stress, pulling his rank.
“Yes,
sir,” the corporal responded automatically to the inflection, “of course sir.”
“Then—?”
The
corporal made up his mind.
“I’ll
have to check, sir,” he said. “Sorry, sir,” he added apologetically.
He
went off along the corridor. Because of the heat all the rooms had their doors
open, and so Owen was able to hear very clearly the explosion at the far end of
the building.
“A bloody Gyppy? Certainly
not!”
Heavy
footsteps hurried down the corridor and a flushed major burst into the room.
“What
the—” he began, and then, seeing Mahmoud, stopped.
Even
the Army had to make some effort to keep up appearances.
“Would
you step this way, Captain?” he said stiffly, and stalked off up the corridor.
In
his room he wheeled on Owen.
“What
the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?”
“I’d
like el Zaki to listen in.” “He can’t. I’m not having one of our men questioned
by a bloody native.”
“He’s
a member of the Parquet, for Christ’s sake!”
“Still
a bloody native as far as I’m concerned,” said the major, “and I’m not having
him question one of our men.”
“Who
the hell said anything about him questioning anybody? I’m questioning. He’s
listening.”
“Same thing.”
“It’s
not the same thing. He’ll be in a separate room. All I want is the doors open.”
“Can’t
be done,” said the major flatly.
“I’d
like it done.”
The
major’s cheeks tightened.
“Would
you,
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