Seven Dials

chapter SIX
"EGYPT!" Charlotte said incredulously when Pitt told her. He had arrived home late and dinner was already served.

"I know where Egypt is," Daniel offered. "It's in the top of Africa." He said it with his mouth full, but Charlotte was too stunned to correct him. "You'll have to sail in a boat," Daniel added helpfully.

"But it will be..." Charlotte began, then she caught sight of Jemima's troubled face, "interesting," she finished awkwardly. "And hot... won't it? What will you wear?"

"I'll have to get some clothes when I get there," he replied. There were scores of things he wished to say to her, but he knew her anxiety, especially after the danger she and Gracie and the children had survived so recently, when they had had to leave Dartmoor in the middle of the night. Tellman had rescued them, arriving in the dark and packing everything they owned into a pony cart and driving them to the nearest station. They had been accosted on the way, and Tellman had actually fought the man and left him near senseless on the ground. Jemima still remembered it rather too clearly. Pitt smiled at her. "I'll bring you back something nice," he promised. "All of you," he added as Daniel was about to speak.

Charlotte was less easy to distract later when they were alone.

"What can you do in Egypt?" she demanded. "It's a British Protectorate, or something like that. Haven't we got police there? They could send a letter, and if they don't trust the postal service, a courier."

"The local police won't know what to look for, or recognize it if they find it," he answered. He had thought, as he walked quickly along Keppel Street on the way home, the wind blowing the rain in his face, the wet pavement gleaming in the lamplight and passing traffic spraying water up in sheets, that he was looking forward to the adventure of going to an ancient, sunlit city on the edge of Africa. The fact that he did not understand the language, was unfamiliar with the food, the money, and the customs, was unimportant. He could learn enough. He would do his best to find out something about Ayesha Zakhari, probably things he would rather not have known, but at least he would be as sure as he could that it was the truth. It might explain what had happened.

Now he was in the multilayered comfort of home. There was certainty of the heart here, as well as of the simple pleasures like his own chair, his own bed, knowing where everything was, homemade bread toasted crisp, with sharp, bitter marmalade and hot tea for breakfast. Above all there were the people. He would miss them, even in a few days, let alone weeks.

He told her so, over and over, in words, in touch and in silence.

PITT STOOD ON THE DECK of the ship and stared across the blue water towards a horizon which was a glittering margin between sea and sky, unbroken by even the suggestion of land. He was glad to escape from his cabin, which was in fact only half his. He was obliged to share it with a thin, unhappy man from Lancashire who made the journey regularly in the pursuit of his business. This man saw dark times ahead, and found a kind of satisfaction in saying so at every possible opportunity. The only virtue he possessed in Pitt's eyes was that he was uninterested in anyone else. Not once had he pressed Pitt as to what he did, where he came from, or why he was going to Egypt.

Narraway had given Pitt no story to explain himself, leaving it entirely up to him to invent whatever he pleased. He held that a man who created his own story was more likely to believe it and make no slips which would give him away. Pitt had spent the two-hour train journey from London to Southampton racking his brains for some excuse which did not rely on knowledge he did not possess. There was no point at all in suggesting any kind of business. Five minutes' conversation would show that he knew nothing about commerce. He was no scholar, and certainly not in the history or antiquities of Egypt, which was a subject of such interest now, and increasing all the time. His ignorance would show at the very first question.

What sort of man goes alone for a holiday to a foreign country about which he knows nothing, and where he has no friends or family? Not a married man, and he had chosen to be as close to the truth as possible, for convenience and safety, and because it gave him an anchor within himself. But if he did not go for pleasure, then it had to be some kind of necessity.

He settled on the invention of a brother who had gone for reasons of business and not been heard from in over two months. That gave him a compelling purpose and at the same time a justification for asking questions, and an explanation for his own ignorance on almost everything. So far he had answered all questions to everyone's apparent satisfaction. His cabin companion had responded only that if the brother's business was in cotton then he was doomed, and Pitt had best start looking in the alleys or even the river for what was left of him. Pitt had not replied.

Now he stared at the blue water and felt the breeze sweet and quite warm on his skin, and looked forward to the interest of a new place unlike anything he had ever imagined, let alone seen.

As soon as he landed he presented his passport, then saw to the disembarking of his luggage. With his case in his hand he stood on the quayside amid the shouting and the bustle. He heard a dozen different languages, none of which he understood, but there was something common to docksides the world over. In London it would have been bright at least, but there was always that chill in the wind up from the water. Here the heat wrapped around him like a damp, muffling blanket. The smells were at once familiar-tar, salt, fish. But there were also different smells-spices, dust, something warm, and sweat.

Some of the men worked naked to the waist. Others stood around dressed in long robes and turbans, talking to each other, inspecting a box here or a bale there.

With the captain's assistance he had already changed a little of his money into the local currency of piasters, he suspected at a highly unfavorable rate, but the convenience was worth a price.

It was late afternoon already and he must find lodgings before dark. He picked up his case and started to walk off the quay towards the busy street. Was there anyone who would at least understand English, even if they did not speak it? What sort of public transport was there?

He saw a horse and open carriage near the curb, presumably Alexandria's equivalent of a hansom. He was about to go over and ask the driver to take him to the British consulate when another man in Western clothes cut in front of him at a brisk stride, climbed up and swung into the seat, shouting his instructions in English.

Pitt determined to be quicker next time.

It took him twenty minutes to find another carriage, and a further five to persuade the driver to take him to the consulate for what he considered to be a reasonable fare. Of course he had no notion as to whether this man was taking him as he wished or not. He could have ended up in the desert, for all he was able to judge for himself, but he was too fascinated not to stare around as he was jerked and jolted along the streets. Narrow alleys opened into wide, sunlit thoroughfares.

Everything was of warm sand colors shifting into darker terra-cotta and the soft browns of wooden windows jutting out over the unpaved earth and stones below. Sun-bleached awnings hung motionless. Chickens and pigeons moved at will, pecking and squawking. Now and then a camel lurched with the peculiar grace of a ship bucking against the tide. Heavy-laden donkeys plodded along.

People wore pale robes, men with turbans, women with flowing scarves that also covered the lower half of their faces. Here and there was a splash of red or clear blue-green.

There seemed to be insects everywhere. Over and over again Pitt felt the needlelike sting of mosquitoes, but he could not move quickly enough to swat them.

All around him the air was pungent with the smell of spices and hot food, the sound of voices, laughter, now and then metal bells with a strange, hollow music to them.

Dusk came suddenly, and in an enamel-clear sky changing from hard blue to luminous turquoise there floated the most haunting cry, singing and yet not as he had ever heard it before. It seemed to ululate up and down without drawing breath, and floated as if from a height, penetrating the evening till it shivered from the towers and walls of every building.

No one looked startled. They seemed to have expected it exactly at the instant it came.

The carriage drew up at a marble-faced building of great beauty, its smooth stones alternating in lighter and darker shades to give it a rich appearance. Pitt thanked the driver, handed over the agreed price, and stepped out onto the baking footpath. The air around him was balmy, warm on his skin as if he were inside a room facing the sun, although the sky was darkening so rapidly he could barely see across the street for the depth of the shadows under the farther walls. There had been no twilight. The sun had disappeared and night was immediate. Already the footpaths were filling with people laughing and talking.

But it was dark already, and he had nowhere to spend the night, and the immediacy of that need should override interest. He went up the steps of the building and inside. A young Egyptian in an earth-colored robe addressed him in perfect English and asked in what way he could assist. Pitt replied that he sought advice, and repeated the name Narraway had given him.

Five minutes later he stood in Trenchard's office, the oil lamps giving a soft, muted glow to a room of antique and startlingly simple beauty. On one wall a painting of sunset over the Nile was haunting in its loveliness. On a small table a piece of Greek sculpture sat next to a rolled-up papyrus and a gold ornament that could have come from the sarcophagus of a pharaoh.

"You like them?" Trenchard asked with a smile, snapping Pitt's attention back to the present.

"Yes," Pitt said apologetically. "I'm sorry." He must be too tired, too overwhelmed by new sensation to be thinking properly.

"Not at all," Trenchard assured him. "You could never love the mystery and the splendor of Egypt more than I do. Especially Alexandria! Here the corners of the world are folded together with a vitality you will find nowhere else. Rome, Greece, Byzantium, and Egypt!" He said their names as if the words themselves captured an impressionable magic.

He was a man of instant charm and perfect diction, as if he read poetry aloud for his pleasure. He was of average height, but looked taller because he was slender, and he moved with unusual grace as he came around his desk to shake Pitt's hand. His face was patrician, with a rather large aquiline nose, and his fair brown hair waved a trifle extravagantly. Pitt had the impression of a gentleman, perhaps posted here to suit the convenience of his family rather than from any innate skill. He was no doubt well educated in the classics, possibly even with a dilettante interest in Egyptology, but he had the air of one who takes his pleasures seriously and his work with relative lightness.

"What can we do for you?" he asked warmly. "Jackson said you asked for me by name?" It was a question that politely required an explanation.

"Mr. Victor Narraway suggested you might be able to give me some advice," Pitt replied.

Trenchard's eyes flashed with understanding. "Indeed," he acknowledged. "Do sit down. You have just arrived in Egypt?"

"Off the steamer docked an hour ago," Pitt acknowledged, accepting the seat gratefully. He had not walked very far, but he had been standing on deck for a long time, too eager and too interested to wait below in his cabin.

"Have you somewhere to stay?" Trenchard asked, but his expression assumed the negative. "I would suggest Casino San Stefano. It's a very good hotel-a hundred rooms, so you'll have no trouble getting one. They are all twenty-five piasters a day, and the food is excellent. If you don't care for Egyptian, they serve French as well. Rather more important than that, you can get there by carriage down the Strada Rossa, or perhaps less expensive and more discreet is an excellent tramway, twenty-four trams a day, and both the Schatz and the Racos end at the San Stefano terminus."

"Thank you," Pitt said sincerely. It was a good beginning, but he was overwhelmed by his ignorance and the feeling of being in a city in which even the smell of the air was foreign to him. He had never felt so fumblingly blind, or so alone. Everything familiar was a thousand miles away.

Trenchard was watching him, waiting for him to continue. He could have enquired for a hotel from anyone. He must explain at least something of his purpose here. He began with what was public knowledge, at least in London. He gave Trenchard the bare facts of the murder of Lovat and the arrest of Ayesha Zakhari.

"Zakhari!" Trenchard repeated the name curiously, his face alive with interest.

"You know her family?" Pitt said quickly. Perhaps this was going to be easy after all.

"No-but it's a Coptic name, not Muslim." He saw Pitt's lack of understanding. "Christian," he explained.

Pitt was startled. He had not even considered the question of religion, but now he realized its importance.

Then the moment after, Trenchard added more, his mouth twisted in a slight, wry smile, his eyes meeting Pitt's steadily. "From what you say, she is something better than a prostitute, perhaps a rather exclusive courtesan. If she were Muslim she would be cut off from her own people for associating with a non-Muslim man in such a way, however discreetly. As a Christian, if she is extremely careful, she can maintain the fiction of acceptability."

"I don't know that she's a courtesan!" Pitt said rather hotly, then felt embarrassed at his own lack of professional detachment as he saw the laughter in Trenchard's eyes.

Trenchard forbore from comment, even though it was in his expression, not unkindly, simply as the gentle weariness of a man of the world dealing with someone of startling naivete. Pitt felt scalded by it. He was a professional policeman with far more knowledge of the darker sides of human nature than this aristocratic diplomat. He controlled his temper with difficulty.

"The only association we know of is with Saville Ryerson," he said in a chillier tone than he had intended. "Lovat was apparently an ardent admirer when he served here in Alexandria twelve years ago, but we don't know if he was ever more than that."

Trenchard folded his hands, completely unperturbed. "And you want to know?"

"Among other things, yes."

"Presumably your brief is to clear Ryerson?" That was more an invitation to explain his precise needs than a question, but Trenchard was a man whose courtesy never failed. Pitt had the sudden, profound impression that if he were to shoot you, he would do it politely.

There was no point in being abusive; Trenchard would only consider him even more of a fool.

"If possible," he agreed.

Trenchard saw his hesitation, minute as it had been, and it was reflected in his expression.

"We need to know the truth," Pitt continued quickly. "Why would she kill Lovat? Why did she come to London in the first place? Was she seeking Ryerson or did she meet him by chance?" He realized as he said it how unlikely it was that a beautiful Egyptian woman merely happened to fall in love with the government minister in charge of cotton exports. And yet history was littered with unlikely meetings that had altered its course irrevocably.

"Yes..." Trenchard said, pursing his lips. "Of course. Puts a different complexion on it. Why is she supposed to have shot this Lovat?" His eyes widened very slightly. "Who is he, anyway?"

"A junior diplomat of no apparent importance," Pitt replied. He decided to say nothing yet about the possibility of blackmail. "And even if he were pestering her," he went on, "Ryerson is sufficiently in love with her that he is doing all he can to protect her from a charge of murder, even at the expense of his own reputation. She had no cause to fear that a past lover would turn his affections away from her."

"Yes, indeed," Trenchard said softly. "It seems there is something beyond the obvious, and the possibilities are numerous. Your visit here is well advised. I admit, I wondered why Narraway did not simply request someone at the consulate to look into it, but now I see that a detective is required. The answer may be complex, and it may be that there are those who would wish it to remain unknown." He smiled, a charming, candid gesture. "Are you familiar with Egypt, Mr. Pitt?"

Pitt saw behind Trenchard's easy manner a glimpse of the passion he had shown before when he spoke of the beauty and antiquity of Egypt, and the brilliance of the culture that had crossed its path, particularly here, where the Nile met the Mediterranean-in a sense, where Africa met Europe.

"Assume I know nothing," Pitt said with humility. "The little I have learned can be disregarded."

Trenchard nodded, a flash of approval in his face. "The recorded history of the country goes back not far short of five thousand years before Christ." His words were momentous, and for all his casual tone, there was awe in his expression. "But for your purposes you can disregard all of it, even the Napoleonic conquest and brief French occupation nearly a century ago. No doubt you are aware of Lord Nelson's victory at Aboukir, usually known, I believe, as the Battle of the Nile? Yes, I assumed so." There was an indefinable edge to his voice, an emotion impossible to name. "Egypt is nominally part of the Ottoman Empire, and therefore owes allegiance to the Sultan of Turkey," he continued. "But in fact for the last fifteen years it has been part of ours, although it would be extremely unwise to make any remark to that effect." He shrugged elegantly. "Or to the fact that we bombarded Alexandria ten years ago, on Mr. Gladstone's orders."

Pitt flinched, but Trenchard took no more than slight notice, just a flicker in his eyes.

"The khedive is the sultan's vassal," he continued. "There is an Egyptian prime minister, a parliament, an Egyptian army and an Egyptian flag. The finances are probably of no interest to you except regarding cotton, which is the single exported crop here, and bought entirely by Britain, a fact of no little importance."

"Yes," Pitt said grimly. "I was aware of that. And I think finances might be at the heart of the issue. But," he added hastily, "I do not require a lecture on them at present. What about police?"

Trenchard moved a little in his seat.

"I would forget the entire subject of law and courts, if I were you," Trenchard said dryly. "Egyptian jurisdiction over foreigners belongs to a whole series of courts, one for each consulate, and the circumlocutory machinations of any of them, let alone all, would confound even Theseus, trailing a thread behind him." He spread his elegant hands wide. "In effect the British run Egypt, but we do it discreetly. There are hundreds of us, and we all answer to the consul-general, Lord Cromer, who is usually referred to simply as 'the lord.' And I presume you know what they say about him?"

"I have no idea," Pitt confessed.

Trenchard raised his eyebrows very slightly, a smile on his lips. "'It is no good having right on your side if Lord Cromer is against you,'" he quoted. "Better, I think, in this situation, if he never hears of you."

"I shall certainly work to that end," Pitt promised. "But I need to know about this woman, who she was before she came to England, and if she is really as impulsive and..."

"Stupid," Trenchard filled in for him, his eyes wide. "Yes, I can see the necessity. We'll start among the Copts. I'll give you a map and mark the most likely areas. I would assume that she comes from a family with a certain amount of money, since she obviously speaks English and has the means to travel."

"Thank you." Pitt stood up, finding himself stiff and making an effort to stifle a yawn. It was still extraordinarily warm, his clothes were sticking to his skin, and he was far more tired than he had expected. "Where do I catch the tram for San Stefano?"

"You have piasters?"

"Yes... thank you."

Trenchard rose to his feet also. "Then if you turn right and walk about a hundred yards you will find the stop on your left, immediately across the street. But I would suggest at this time of evening, while you are unfamiliar with the city, that you take a horse carriage. It should not be more than eight or nine piasters, and worth it when you have a case to carry. Good luck, Pitt." He held out his hand. "If I can be of assistance, please call me. If I know anything that might help I shall send a note to you at San Stefano."

Pitt shook his hand, thanked him again, and accepted his advice to take a carriage.

The journey was not long but the heat had not abated in the crowded streets, and once again Pitt was thoroughly bitten by mosquitoes. By the time he arrived at the hotel he was exhausted, and itching everywhere.

However, the hotel was indeed excellent and offered him a room at twenty-five piasters a night, as Trenchard had said. He was offered excellent and abundant food, but he accepted only fresh bread and fruit, and when he had eaten it he went up to his room. As soon as the door was closed he took off his shoes, walked over to the window and stared out at a brilliant black sky dotted with stars. He could smell the heat and the salt wind blowing in off the sea. He breathed in deeply and let it go in a long, aching sigh. The city was beautiful, uplifting, exciting, and so very far from home. He could hear the sound of the sea, occasional laughter, and a constant background noise like that of crickets in summer grass. It reminded him of childhood summers in the country, but he was too tired to enjoy it. He wished more than he could control and be master of that Charlotte were here, so he could say to her "Look," or bid her listen to the faraway voices speaking an utterly different language, or share with her the alien, spicy odors of the night.

He turned back to the unfamiliar room, took his clothes off and washed the dust from himself, then opened the soft drapes of the mosquito nets around the bed. He climbed in, carefully closing them again, and went to sleep almost immediately. He woke once in the darkness and for several moments could not think where he was. He missed the movement of the ship. He was oddly dizzy without it. Then realization flooded back to him, and he turned over and sank into oblivion again until late morning.

HE USED THE FIRST TWO DAYS to learn all he could of the city. He began by purchasing suitable clothes for temperatures in the seventies at night and the eighties during the day. He made use of the excellent public transport system of trams, all newly painted, and trains, British built and oddly familiar even in the dazzling sunlight, against which he felt he was permanently squinting. Sometimes he walked the streets listening to the voices, watching the faces, noting the extraordinary mixture of languages and races. As well as Egyptians there were Greeks, Armenians, Jews, Levantines, Arabs, occasionally French, and everywhere English. He saw soldiers in tropical uniform, expatriates seeming much at ease, as if this was now home to them, the heat, the noise, the market haggling, the blistering brightness of everything. There were pale-faced tourists, tired and excited, determined to see everything. He overheard them chattering about moving on to Cairo, and then taking one of many steamers going up the Nile to Karnak and beyond.

One elderly vicar, his white mustache gleaming against his mahogany skin, spoke enthusiastically about his recent trip. He described sitting at breakfast staring across the timeless Nile as if it had been eternity itself, his Egyptian Gazette open in front of him, his Dundee marmalade on his fresh toast, and the burial pyramids of the pharaohs on the skyline across the sands.

"Perfectly splendid!" he said in a voice that might have been ringing across a gentleman's club in London.

It reminded Pitt sharply of the urgency of his mission, and forced him to begin asking for the Coptic family of Zakhari. Absorbing the millennia of the pharaohs; the centuries of Greece and Rome; the romance of Cleopatra; the coming of the Arabs, the Turks and Mamelukes; the conquest of Napoleon and then Nelson; would all have to wait. It was now the British who ruled, whatever the caliph in Istanbul pretended, and it was the ships of the world that sailed through the Suez Canal to India and the East beyond. It was to English cotton mills in the smoke and darkening winter of Manchester, Burnley, Salford and Blackburn that the harvest of Egypt was sold. And it was from the factories of England that the finished goods were brought back, through Suez and beyond.

There was poverty in these hot streets with the dung and the flies. There was hunger and disease. He saw beggars sitting in the partial shade of sunbaked walls, moving with the shadows, asking for alms, for the love of God. Sometimes their bodies seemed whole, some even at a glance were crippled or pitted with sores, others were blind or maimed. Some faces were scarred by the pox, or disfigured with leprosy, and he found it hard not to look away.

A few times he was spat at, and once he was caught on the elbow by a stone hurled from behind, though when he turned there was no one there.

But there was poverty in England as well, cold and wet, gutters running over, and the diseases of a different climate, the hacking coughs of tuberculosis, and there, as here, the agony of cholera and typhoid. He could not weigh one against the other.

He went back to the main suburb where the Christian Copts lived. Sitting in a small restaurant over a cup of coffee so thick and sweet he could not drink it, he began to ask questions. He used the excuse (which was the truth) that Ayesha was in trouble in London and he was seeking her family, or any friend or relative who might be able to help her. At the very least they should know of her predicament.

It took him nearly two more days before he learned anything beyond rumor and surmise. Finally he agreed to meet with a man whose sister had been a friend of Ayesha's, and by arrangement, Pitt had ordered dinner at the Casino San Stefano.

Pitt was waiting at the table when an Egyptian man of about thirty-five stopped at the entrance of the dining room. The man was dressed in the traditional robes of the country, but the cloth was rich and the colors those of the warm earth. He gazed about for a moment or two, and then, apparently identifying Pitt among the other European guests, he made his way between the tables and bowed, introducing himself formally. "Good evening, Effendi. My name is Makarios Yacoub, and you are Mr. Pitt, I think, yes?"

Pitt rose to his feet and inclined his head in a slight bow. "How do you do. Yes, I am Thomas Pitt. Thank you very much for coming." He gestured to the other chair, inviting Yacoub to be seated. "May I offer you dinner? The food is excellent, but I daresay you know that."

"Are you yourself dining?" Yacoub enquired, accepting the seat.

Pitt had already learned in his few days there to be indirect in his speech. Haste gained nothing but contempt. "It would be pleasant," he replied.

"Then by all means." Yacoub nodded. "That is most gracious of you."

Pitt made a few remarks about his interest in the city, commenting on the beauty of some of the parts he had seen, especially the causeway between the old lighthouse and the city.

"I felt as if, were I to close my eyes, then open them suddenly, I might see the Pharos as it was when it was one of the seven wonders of the ancient world," he said, then felt self-conscious for voicing aloud such a fancy.

But then he saw instantly that Yacoub understood. His face softened with a warmth and he relaxed a little in his seat. He was an Alexandrian and he loved to hear his city praised.

"The causeway is called the Heptastadion," he explained. "Built by Dinocrates. To the east is where the old harbor of the Middle Ages was. But there are so many other things you must see. If it is the past that interests you, there is the tomb of Alexander the Great. Some say it is beneath the Mosque of Nabi Daniel, others in the necropolis nearby." He smiled apologetically. "Forgive me if I say too much. I wish to share my city with everyone who looks at it with the eye of friendship. You must walk along the Mahmudiya Canal to the Antoniadis Gardens, where there is history in every handful of the earth. The poet Callinachus lived there, and taught his students, and in 640 A.D. Pompilius prevented the king of Syria from capturing the city." He shrugged a little. "And there is a Roman tomb," he finished with a smile, as the waiter presented himself.

"Are you familiar with our food?" Yacoub enquired.

"Very little," Pitt admitted, willing to allow him to help, both for practicality and courtesy.

"Then I suggest Mulukhiz," Yacoub replied. "It is a green soup, a great delicacy. You will enjoy it. And then Hamam Mahshi; that is stuffed pigeon." He looked at Pitt questioningly.

"That would be excellent, thank you," Pitt agreed.

Pitt asked him further questions about the city until the food was served. They were halfway through the soup, which was indeed delicious, when Yacoub at last raised the subject for which they were met.

"You said that Miss Zakhari was in a certain degree of difficulty," he said, laying his spoon down for a moment and looking more closely at Pitt. His voice was light, as if they were still discussing the city, but there was an intensity in his eyes.

Pitt was aware that there was an excellent telephone service in the city, more reliable at times than that in London, and it was more than possible that Yacoub already knew of her arrest, and the charges. He must not be caught in a misrepresentation, let alone an outright falsehood.

"I am afraid it is serious," he conceded. "I am not sure whether she will have had the opportunity to inform her family, or perhaps she has not wished to cause them concern. However, if she were my daughter, or sister, I should prefer to know all the details as completely as possible, so that I might know how to help."

If Yacoub knew anything he kept it from his face. "Of course," he murmured. "Naturally." But he did not betray any surprise that Ayesha Zakhari should be in difficulty or danger. Pitt would have expected surprise, even alarm, and there was none. Was that because Yacoub had already been told of her predicament through the news, or was it something not unexpected from his knowledge of Ayesha herself? Pitt remembered Narraway's warning with a sense of coldness, even here in the stifling dining room with its odors of food, and the breeze from the water drifting in through the open doors. The young man opposite him was charming, so easy of manner he could forget that his interests might be very different from Pitt's, or from the British government's.

"You are acquainted with her family?" Pitt said aloud.

Yacoub lifted his shoulders slightly, an elegant gesture that could have meant a number of things. "Her mother died many years ago, her father only three or four," he answered.

Pitt was surprised that he should feel a sense of pity. "Is there no one else? Brothers? A sister?"

"No one," Yacoub replied. "She was an only child. Perhaps that is why her father took such care that she should be educated. She was his dearest companion. She speaks French, Greek, and Italian, as well as English, of course. And Arabic is her native tongue. But it was philosophy in which she excelled, the history of thought and of ideas." He was watching Pitt, and noted his surprise. "You look at a beautiful woman and think she seeks only to please," he remarked.

Pitt opened his mouth to deny it, and realized it was true, and Yacoub knew it. He felt himself blush, and said nothing.

"She did not care much about pleasing," Yacoub went on, a faint smile in his eyes more than on his lips, and he resumed eating, breaking the bread in his fingers. "Perhaps she did not need to."

"Did her father not wish to see her married well?" Pitt knew it was a somewhat impertinent question, but he needed far more information than this, and if she had no family alive then a friend was all there was to ask.

Yacoub looked back at him. "Perhaps. But Ayesha was willful, and Mr. Zakhari was too fond of her to push her against her wish." He took several more spoonfuls of his green soup before deciding to continue. "She had sufficient means not to need to marry, and she cared nothing for convention."

"Or love?" Pitt risked asking.

Again, Yacoub gave the delicate gesture which could have meant almost anything. "I think she loved many times, but how deeply I have no idea."

Was that a euphemism? Pitt was floundering in a culture far different from his own. He still had little idea of what kind of woman Ayesha Zakhari was, except that she was unlike any other he knew. He wished profoundly that he could have asked Charlotte. She might have been able to cut through the words and grasp reality.

"What sort of people did she love?" he asked.

Yacoub finished his green soup and the waiter removed the plates and returned with the pigeon.

Yacoub looked not at Pitt but at some point in the distance. "I knew only one personally," he answered. Then, raising his eyes suddenly to Pitt's, he demanded, "How does this help her, that you should know about Ramses Ghali? He is not in England. He can have nothing to do with her present troubles."

"Are you certain?"

There was no hesitation in Yacoub's face. "Absolutely."

Pitt was unconvinced. "Who is he?"

Yacoub's eyes were soft, but his expression was an unreadable mixture of anger and sorrow. "He is dead," he explained quietly. "He died over ten years ago."

"Oh..." Death again. Had she truly loved this man? Could he be the key to her behavior now? Pitt was reaching for straws, but there was nothing else. "Might she have married him, had he lived?"

Yacoub smiled. "No." Again he seemed absolutely certain.

"But you said she loved him..."

Yacoub looked patient, as with a child who needs endless and detailed explanations. "They loved each other as friends, Mr. Pitt. Ramses Ghali believed passionately in Egypt, as his father did." A shadow crossed his face, and an emotion Pitt could not read, but he thought there was a touch of anger in it, a darkness.

The bombardment of Alexandria had occurred ten years ago. Was that the chill Pitt saw? Or was it deeper than that, the whole matter of General Gordon and the siege of Khartoum, south from here in the Sudan? In 1882 British forces had defeated Orabi at Tel-el-Kebir, and six thousand Egyptians had been massacred by the Mahdi in Sudan. The following year an Egyptian army even larger had been similarly destroyed, and in 1884 yet a further army was defeated, and General "Chinese" Gordon had arrived. In January, Gordon had perished, and less than six months later the Mahdi himself was dead; but Khartoum was not yet retaken.

Suddenly, Pitt felt very far from home, and for all the European decoration of the hotel dining room, and its Italian name, he was acutely aware of the ancient and utterly different heritage of the young man opposite him, and of the African spice and heat of the air beyond the walls. He had to force himself to try to think clearly.

"You said Ayesha Zakhari believed in Egypt just as fiercely," he said, beginning to eat his pigeon, which he thought absentmindedly was the best he had ever had. "Is she a person to take any kind of action on her beliefs? Did she speak for a cause, seek to draw in others?"

Yacoub gave a tiny, almost smothered laugh, cut off instantly. "Has she changed so much? Or do you simply know nothing about her, Mr. Pitt?" His eyes narrowed and he ignored his food. "I have read the newspapers, and I think the English government will seek to get their own minister off, and hang Ayesha." Now there was a world of bitterness in his voice, and his smooth olive face was as close to ugly as it could be, so dark was the rage and the pain inside him. "What is it you want here? To find a witness who will tell you she is a dangerous woman, a fanatic who will kill anyone who stands in her way? That perhaps this Lieutenant Lovat knew something about her which would spoil her life of luxury in England, and he threatened to tell people?"

"No," Pitt said instantly, and perhaps the force with which he meant it carried between them.

Yacoub let out his breath slowly and seemed to listen instead of merely waiting his chance to interrupt.

"No," Pitt continued. "I would like to find the truth. I can't think of any reason why she would kill him. All she had to do was ignore him and he would have had no choice but to desist, or be dealt with, possibly unpleasantly, for making a nuisance of himself." He saw the disbelief in Yacoub's face. "Lovat had a profession," he explained. "A career in the diplomatic service. How far would he progress if he incurred the enmity of a senior government minister like Saville Ryerson?"

"Would he exercise his influence to save her?" Yacoub asked uncertainly.

"Yes!" It was Pitt's turn to state what was so plain to him, and apparently unknown to Yacoub. "Ryerson has already committed himself to help her in Lovat's death, even at the risk of being sent to trial for it himself. He would hardly balk at warning off a young man whose attentions were unwelcome. A word to his senior in the diplomatic service and Lovat would be finished."

Yacoub still looked doubtful.

Around them in the dining room the buzz of conversation ebbed and flowed. A beautiful woman with fair hair and a porcelain complexion laughed, throwing her head back so the light caught her. Her companion gazed at her in fascination. Pitt wondered if it was a romance she would not have dared entertain at home. Was this greater freedom something Yacoub imagined to exist in British society? How could Pitt explain that it was not?

Yacoub looked down at his plate. "You don't understand," he said quietly. "You really know nothing about her."

"Then tell me!" Pitt begged. He nearly added more, then bit it back. He could see the struggle in Yacoub's face, the need to fight for some justice, to see truth destroy ignorance, and at the same time the deep need of a private person not to betray the secrets of another's passion or pain.

Again, Pitt tried to think of an argument that would win, and again he kept silent.

Yacoub pushed his plate away and reached for his glass. He sipped from it very slowly, then put it down and looked at Pitt. "Ramses's father Alexander was one of the leaders fighting to govern our own affairs when our debts ran out of control under the Khedive Ismail, before he was deposed and his son Tewfik put in his place, and Britain took over management of Egypt's financial affairs. He was a brilliant man, a philosopher and scholar. He spoke Greek and Turkish as well as Arabic. He wrote poetry in all of them. He knew our culture and our history, from the pharaohs who built the pyramids at Giza, through all the dynasties to Cleopatra, the Greco-Roman period, the coming of the Arabs and the law of Mohammed, the art and the medicine, the astronomy and the architecture. He had strength and he had charm."

Pitt did not interrupt. He had no idea if what Yacoub was saying was going to mean anything in the murder of Edwin Lovat, or if Narraway could use even a shred of it, but it fascinated him because it was part of the story of this extraordinary city.

"He could make you see the magic in the gleam of moonlight on marble shards a thousand years old," Yacoub went on, turning the goblet in his fingers. "He could bring back the life and the laughter of the past as if it had never really left, simply been overlooked for a space by people too insensitive to perceive it. With him you could see the colors of the world, hear music simply in the wind over the sand. The smell of dirt and sewage, the flies in the street, the mosquitoes, were only the breathing of life."

"And Ayesha?" Pitt asked, afraid already of the answer.

"Oh, she loved Alexander Ghali," Yacoub replied, his mouth twisted a little sideways. "She was young, and honor was dear to her. She loved her country too, and its history, its ideas, but she loved the people and hated the poverty which kept them ignorant when they could have learned to read and write, and kept them sick when they could have been well."

Pitt waited. He knew from the suppressed emotion in Yacoub's face, the shadows in his eyes, that the story was only half told, if that.

Yacoub took up the thread again. He had stopped only to regain control of his feelings so they did not show so nakedly in his face.

"He was a man of almost infinite possibilities," he said quietly. "He would even have given Egypt back her independence and financial integrity. But he was flawed. He indulged his family. He gave his sons and his brothers power, and they were greedy for themselves. He was a man who fed on the beautiful things of the heart and the mind, but he had not the inner courage to deny those around him. Leaders must be prepared to walk alone, if need be, and he was not."

He drew in a deep breath, turned his glass in his hand as if to sip it again, then ignored it after all. There was a tightness in his face, of old pain still unhealed. "Ayesha loved him, and he betrayed her, and his people. I don't know if she ever cared wholly for any man after that, unless she does for this Ryerson?" Now he raised his eyes to meet Pitt's. "Will he betray her also?"

Pitt wondered if that was why she had said nothing to the police. Was she numb inside, waiting for history to repeat itself?

"By betraying her, or betraying his own people?" he asked.

There was a flash of understanding in Yacoub's eyes. "You are thinking of the cotton? That she went to London to try to persuade him to leave us our raw cotton to weave, instead of shipping it to Manchester, for British workers to create the greater profit from it-to grow rich, instead of us? Perhaps she did. It would be like her."

"Then she was asking him to choose between Egypt and England," Pitt pointed out. "If he made a decision at all, then it had to be a betrayal of someone."

"Yes... of course it was." Yacoub's lips tightened. "Whether she could forgive him for that I do not know." He picked up his glass at last. "There is nothing more I can tell you. Look all you wish, you will find that what I have said is true."

"What about Lieutenant Lovat?"

Yacoub waved his hand dismissively. "Nothing of importance. He fell in love with her, and perhaps she was bruised enough to find his attention healing. It lasted a while, a few months. He was posted back to England. I think she was quite relieved by then. Perhaps he was also. He had no intention of marrying outside his own class and station."

"Do you know anything about Lovat?"

"No. But you might find someone among the British soldiers who does. There are enough of them here."

Pitt said nothing. He was acutely aware of the British presence in all sorts of ways, not just the enormous number of soldiers, but the civilians in administration everywhere. Egypt was not a colony, and yet in many practical ways it might as well have been. If Ayesha Zakhari had wished to rid her country of foreign domination, he could understand it very easily.

Was that why she had gone to London, not out of any desire to make her own future, but to help her people? If that was so, then presumably she had sought out Ryerson specifically, as a man with the power to help her, if she could persuade him to do so.

How had she intended to do that? No matter how deeply he was in love with her, he would hardly alter government policy to please her, would he? And according to Yacoub's estimate of her character, she would have despised him if he had.

But then unless she cared for him, that would hardly matter to her. Did she? Had she unexpectedly fallen in love with him, and it was suddenly no longer simply a matter of patriotic duty?

Or had she planned to blackmail him, and Lovat's murder was part of that plan, somehow hideously gone wrong, and she herself had ended up arrested, and by now probably charged as well? What had she meant to have happen? Offer him escape from blame, and increase the pressure upon Ryerson to yield more autonomy to Egypt?

Or was her goal Ryerson's ruin, and the placement of another, more pliable minister in his place-one who would pay the Egyptian price?

But that made little sense. No minister of trade was going to yield the cotton back to Egypt unless he was forced to by circumstances far more powerful than love, or even ruin. He would simply be replaced in time by another stronger and less vulnerable man.

Pitt finished his wine and thanked Yacoub. The voices and laughter bubbled around them, but he could think of nothing further to ask, and instead they spoke again of the rich, intricate history of Alexandria.

When Pitt was at the breakfast table the following morning, a messenger brought him a note from Trenchard, asking him if all was well and if he would care for any further assistance. It also said that if Pitt cared to join him for luncheon, Trenchard would be happy to show him some of the less-well-known places of interest in the city afterwards.

Pitt requested paper and wrote back accepting, and dispatched the messenger with his reply before continuing with his excellent fresh bread, fruit, and fish. He was very rapidly growing accustomed to the exotic food, and enjoying it greatly.

He spent part of the morning in an English library reading what he could find about the Orabi uprising and looking for any reference to anyone named Ghali involved in politics at the time. The passion and the betrayal were so absorbing he was almost late for his luncheon with Trenchard, and arrived at the consulate barely by noon.

Trenchard made no comment, but rose from his chair with a smile and welcomed him in.

"Delighted you could come," he said warmly. He regarded Pitt's pale cotton shirt and trousers, and the already deepening color of his face and lower arms. "You look as if you are well settled in-apart from a few mosquito bites," he observed.

"Very well," Pitt agreed. "It is a city one could spend a year exploring, and hardly touch the surface."

Something in Trenchard's face eased. The lines of his mouth softened and there was an added reality to the warmth in his eyes. "Egypt has you, hasn't it?" he said with evident pleasure. "And you haven't even been anywhere near Cairo yet, never mind up the Nile. I wish your detection took you to Heliopolis, or the tombs of the caliphs or the petrified forest. You could not go that far without riding out to the pyramids at Giza, and of course the Sphinx, and then sat up until you could at least see the pyramids at Aboukir and Sakhara, and the ruins of Memphis." He shook his head slightly, as if at some pleasant, well-known inner joke. "And then nothing on earth could stop you from continuing on up that greatest and oldest of all ruins till you reached Thebes, and the Temple of Karnak. That defeats even the imagination." He was watching Pitt's face as he spoke. "Believe me, no modern Western man can conceive the grandeur of it, the sheer enormity!" He did not wait for comment. He stood still in the middle of the room, oblivious of modern furniture and consulate papers around him. His vision was on the timeless sands.

Pitt did not interrupt; no answer was expected or wanted.

"Then south to Luxor," Trenchard went on. "You should cross the river at dawn. You have never seen anything in your life like first light over the desert, moving across the water's face. Then you have only about four miles to the Valley of the Kings.

"If you ride on a fast camel you will see the sunrise on the tombs of the pharaohs whose fathers ruled this land four thousand years before Christ was born. They were ancient before Abraham came out of Ur of the Chaldees. Have you any idea what that means, Inspector Pitt?" There was challenge in his eyes now. "The British Empire that circles the earth now was born in the last five minutes of time compared with them." He stopped suddenly. He took a deep breath. "But you haven't time for that... I know. And Narraway certainly won't pay for it. Forgive me. No doubt you are eager for your accommodation, and you are honest enough to be compelled by duty."

Pitt smiled. "Duty does not forbid me from learning something about the history of Egypt, or from wishing I needed to pursue Ayesha Zakhari's history at least as far as Cairo. I haven't found an excuse, but I haven't stopped looking."

Trenchard laughed, and led the way out through the offices to the street and a short distance along the crowded thoroughfare in a direction Pitt had not been before. He found himself staring at the beautiful buildings decorated with stone fretwork like lace in its intricacy, balconies with roofs supported by simple pillars. He saw one, shaded from the heat, where a group of elderly men sat on thick turquoise-and-gold cushions eating bread, fruit, and dates as they talked earnestly to one another. They barely glanced at the two Englishmen, contempt and dislike in their eyes for a moment, then masked, because they dared not let it be seen. Behind them, a large man with skin almost as black as his beard, dressed in loose trousers caught in below the knee, seemed to be waiting their pleasure. Pigeons fluttered around, and a tall, narrow-necked vase was stuffed full of pink roses.

Pitt thought it might have looked exactly the same a thousand years earlier.

Trenchard found the cafe of his choice and ordered food for both of them without consulting Pitt, and when it came it made not the slightest pretense at European form. They ate with their fingers, and it was delicious. The color, the smell, the texture-everything pleased.

"I have been making a few enquiries of my own about Ayesha Zakhari," Trenchard said when they were halfway through the meal.

Pitt stopped with a morsel of food in his hand. "Yes?"

"As we had supposed, she is Coptic Christian," Trenchard replied. "Her name tells us as much. It seems she was deeply involved with some of the leading Egyptian nationalists in the Orabi uprising, just before the bombardments of Alexandria ten years ago. I am sorry, Pitt..." He looked rueful. "I have asked discreetly among the friends I have here, and it seems eminently probable that she went to London with the express purpose of ensnaring Ryerson, in some foolish and highly impractical idea that he could be persuaded to alter the British financial arrangements with Egypt... cotton at least, perhaps more. She has always been hotheaded where her idealism is concerned. She fell in love with Alexander Ghali, Ramses's father, and even when he betrayed his cause, she was among the last to accept the truth about him." Trenchard's face was filled with profound emotion, a mixture of pity and contempt so deep even the mention of the facts which provoked it made his whole frame stiffen and his elegant hands suddenly look awkward.

Pitt felt overtaken by a feeling of emptiness also. "Disillusion is very bitter," he said quietly. "Most of us fight to deny it as long as we can."

Trenchard looked up quickly. "I'm sorry, Pitt. I am afraid you are likely to find that she is impulsive, romantic-an idealist who has been betrayed, and now acting from her own pain, and trying to make the old dreams come true, however unrealistic the means."

Pitt looked down at the food in his hand. It no longer held the exotic charm it had only a few minutes ago. That was absurd. He had never even seen Ayesha Zakhari. It should matter nothing to him except professionally that she was irresponsible, a political failure who had allowed personal hurt to spoil her judgment. Yet suddenly he felt tired, as if he too had lost a dream.

"I'll see what else I can find out about Lovat," he said aloud.

Trenchard was watching him, his face full of regret. "I'm sorry," he said again. "I knew it would have been very much pleasanter to think there was some other explanation. But possibly Lovat gained enmities in England?"

"He was shot in Miss Zakhari's garden at three in the morning!" Pitt said with a touch of bitterness. "And with her gun!"

Trenchard gave a slight gesture of resignation, graceful and sad. It had an elegance, as if he had picked up something of the innate dignity of the civilization he so admired.

They finished the meal. Trenchard insisted on paying, after thanking the proprietor in fluent and colloquial Arabic, then he accompanied Pitt to the bazaar and helped him to bargain for a bracelet set with carnelian for Charlotte, a small statue of a hippopotamus for Daniel, some brightly colored silk ribbons for Jemima, and a woven kerchief for Gracie.

Pitt ended the afternoon with information he accepted was inevitably true, however much he would have preferred it not to be, and gifts he was delighted with, and for which he knew he had paid a very small price indeed.

He thanked Trenchard and returned on the tram to San Stefano, determined to find the army barracks where Lovat had served and spend the rest of his time in Alexandria pursuing Lovat's military and personal career and anything he could find out about him. Somewhere his path had crossed Ayesha's, and there had to be more to learn about it.