Seven Dials

chapter EIGHT
PITT WAS GAINING an increasingly clearer picture of Ayesha Zakhari and the people and political issues which had driven her. But as he stood at the window of his hotel room gazing at the wide, balmy night, the smell of spices and salt thick in the air, it was with a start of amazement that he realized he had never seen a picture of her. She would be dark, naturally, and he had assumed that she was beautiful, because he had taken it for granted that that was her stock-in-trade. But as he faced out towards the sea, the vines stirring very gently in the breeze, and stared up at the vast bowl of the sky, pale with stars, he thought of her differently. She had become a person of intelligence and strength of will, someone who fought for beliefs with which he could very easily sympathize. If it were England and not Egypt which was occupied, almost governed, by a nation foreign not only in language and look, but in faith and heritage as well, a comparatively new nation that had been civilized-building, writing, dreaming-when his own people still were savages, how would he have felt?

He heard the sound of laughter in the wind, a man's voice and then a woman's, and a stringed instrument, full of curious half tones. He took off his jacket; even at this hour the air was so warm, the cotton of his shirt was more than sufficient. He had worn it for dinner as a formality.

He gazed around, trying to imprint it all on his mind so he could tell Charlotte about it, the sounds that were so unlike England, the close, comfortable feel of the air on the skin, almost clammy, the heaviness of smell, sweet, close to stagnant at times, and of course always the flies. There was no cutting edge to the wind. It was languorous, hiding danger in ease, resentment behind smiling faces.

He thought of the wave after wave of peoples over the centuries who had come here as soldiers, religious conquerors, explorers, merchants, or settlers, each absorbed by the city, staying here and changing its nature.

Now it was the time of his own people, the English, unalterably foreign with their pale skins and Anglo-Saxon voices, their stiff backs and unshakable ideas of right and wrong. It was at once admirable and absurd. And above all it was monumentally inappropriate. This was an Egyptian city and they had no right here, except as they were invited.

He thought about Trenchard and his obvious love of the land and its people. Later, after their shopping, he had spoken a little of his life here. Apparently he had no close family in England anymore, and the woman he had loved, although not married, was Egyptian. He had spoken of her only briefly. She had been Muslim-in fact, the daughter of an imam, one of their holy men. She had died less than a year ago, in an accident that Trenchard had been unwilling to speak of, and naturally Pitt had not pressed him.

It was in some turmoil of emotions that he stood now, not yet ready to go to bed because he knew sleep would elude him. He could understand Ayesha so easily, the patriotism, the outrage at the way her people were robbed, the poverty and the unnecessary ignorance, and then in London with Ryerson, the torn loyalties.

But had it led her to murder? He still had not escaped the driving conclusion that it had. If not she, then who else?

In the morning he would continue learning what he could about Edwin Lovat. There must still be people here who had knowledge of him that would be more vibrant, more detailed and perhaps more honest than mere written records.

He turned away from the window and prepared to go to bed.

IT DID NOT take him long to discover exactly where Lovat had spent most of his time, and he was on his way there when he passed through the carpet bazaar. It was a baked-mud street perhaps forty feet wide, or more, and roofed over, three stories high, with vast wooden beams stretching from one side to the other and loosely filled over with more timber so the roof cast a barred and dappled shade on the ground. Everywhere there were awnings, over doorways, from windows, from poles like those set horizontally for flags.

Scores of people, almost entirely men, sat around with bales of cloth, rolled-up carpets, brassware, and magnificent hookah pipes emanating lazy smoke. There were many reds-scarlet, carmine, crimson, terra-cotta-and creams, warm earth shades, and black. Noise and color pressed in on every side in the heat.

Pitt was making his way down the middle of the street, trying to avoid looking as if he was there to buy, when there was a scuffle ahead of him, and voices raised in anger.

At first he thought it was merely a haggle over prices that had gotten out of hand, then he realized there were at least half a dozen men involved, and the tone was uglier than that of bystanders watching a squabble.

He stopped. If it was a real brawl he did not want to be caught up in it. He needed to make his way to the edge of the city and out to the village where the military camp was where Lovat had served. It was east, towards the nearest branch of the Nile delta, and the Mahmudiya Canal, beyond which lay Cairo and, over the sands from that, Suez. He could not afford to get caught up in a local quarrel, and if it became unpleasant, it was the job of the police here, where he had no authority, to deal with it.

He turned back. He knew there was another way around to the street beyond. It was longer, but in these circumstances, better. He started to walk more rapidly, but the noise behind him increased. He turned to look. Two men in long robes were arguing, waving their arms around and gesticulating, apparently over the price of a red-and-black rug near the feet of one of them.

Behind him a group of men pressed closer, also curious to see what the hubbub was about.

Pitt swiveled around again to continue walking, but now his way was blocked. He had to step aside not to be caught up in the heat of the crowd. Another carpet was unrolled, completely barring his way. Someone shouted out what sounded like a warning. There were voices all around him, and he understood none of it.

Overhead the dark beams gave a patchy shade, but still the heat was intense because there was no wind. The dust seemed baked under his feet, and the smell of wool, incense, spices, and sweat were heavy in the motionless air. Another mosquito bit him and he slapped at it automatically.

A young man was running, shouting. A pistol shot rang out and there was instant silence, then howls of anger. There seemed to be police of some sort, four or five of them at the far end of the bazaar, and another two only yards away from Pitt. They were European, probably British.

Someone threw a metal bowl and it hit one of the policemen on the side of the head. He staggered a little, caught by surprise.

There were cries which were unmistakably of approval and encouragement. Pitt did not need to speak the language to understand the meaning, or see the hatred in the bearded faces, most of them turbaned, dark and more African than Mediterranean.

He tried to move away from the increasing violence, and bumped into a pile of carpets, which swayed. He spun around to stop it from falling, grasping hold of it with both hands, fingers digging into the hard wool, but he could not save it. He felt himself pulled forward, losing his balance, and the next moment he was sprawled on the pile of rugs, rolling into the dust.

Men were running, robes flying. There were more shouts, the clash of steel on steel, and shots again. Pitt tried to scramble to his feet, and stumbled over an earthenware pot, sending it rolling fast until it caught another man and knocked him off balance. He fell hard on his back, swearing furiously-in English.

Pitt clambered to his feet and ran toward the man, who was still lying on the ground, apparently stunned. Pitt reached out to help him up, and was hit with great force from behind. He pitched into darkness.

He woke up lying on his back, with his head pounding. He thought it was moments since he had fallen and that he was still in the carpet bazaar, except that when he opened his eyes he saw that the ceiling was dirty white, and when he moved slightly he could see walls. There was no red anywhere, no rich colors of wool, only striped ochre and black and unbleached linen in a heap.

He sat up slowly, a little dizzy. The heat was motionless, suffocating. There were flies everywhere. He swatted at them uselessly. He was in a small room, and the heap of cloth was another man. There was a third propped up against the farthest wall, and a fourth under the high, barred window, beyond which was a square of burning blue sky.

He looked at the men again. One was bearded and wore a turban; he had a dark, heavy, swollen bruise around his left eye. It looked painful. A second was clean-shaven except for a long, black mustache. Pitt guessed him to be Greek or Armenian. The third smiled at him, shaking his head and pursing his lips. He held out a leather water bottle, offering it to Pitt.

"L'chaim," he said wryly. "Welcome back."

"Thank you," Pitt accepted. His mouth was dry and his throat ached. An Arab or Turk, a Greek or Armenian, a Jew, and himself, an Englishman. What was he doing here, in what was apparently a prison? He turned around slowly, looking for the door. There was no handle on the inside.

"Where are we?" he said, taking another sip of the water. He should not drink too much, it might be all they had. He passed it back.

"English," the Jew said with bewildered amusement. "What are you doing fighting the English police in a riot? You're not one of us!"

They were all looking at him curiously.

Slowly, he realized that his blundering fall must have looked like a deliberate assault. He had been arrested as part of the demonstration of feeling against the British authority in Egypt. He had sensed the resentment, the slow anger simmering beneath the surface, ever since his second or third day here. Now he began to appreciate how widespread it was, and how thin the veneer of daily life which hid it from the casual eye. Perhaps it was a fortunate chance that had put him here, if he seized it. But he must think of the right answer now.

"I've seen another side of the story," he replied. "I know an Egyptian woman in London." He must be careful not to make a mistake. If he was caught in a lie it might cost him very dearly. "Heard about the cotton industry..." He saw the Arab's face darken. "She gave a good argument for factories here, not in England," Pitt went on, feeling his skin prickle and smelling sweat and fear in the air. His hands were clammy.

"What's your name?" the Arab asked abruptly.

"Thomas Pitt. What's yours?"

"Musa. That's enough for you," came the reply.

Pitt turned to the Jew.

"Avram," came the answer with a smile.

"Cyril," said the Greek, also giving only his first name.

"What will they do to us next?" Pitt asked. Would it be possible for him to get a message to Trenchard? And even if he could, would Trenchard be willing to help him?

Avram shook his head. "They'll either let you go because you're English," he replied, "or they'll throw the book at you for betraying your own. What did you attack the police for, anyway? That's hardly going to get cotton factories built here!" The smile did not fade from his lips, but his eyes were suspicious.

The other two watched, holding judgment by a thread.

Pitt smiled back. "I didn't," he admitted. "I tripped over a carpet."

There was a moment's silence, then Avram roared with laughter, and the second after the others joined in.

But judgment still hung in the balance. There was something here to learn, beyond just survival, and Pitt knew it. They might well think he had been placed with them to seek out the leaders of any potential trouble. There must be an equivalent to Special Branch in Alexandria. He must not ask questions, except about Ayesha, and perhaps Lovat, although Lovat had left Alexandria over twelve years ago. It was becoming increasingly important for him not only to learn the facts but to understand them, although he could not easily have justified it to Narraway, had he asked.

The three men were waiting for him. He must respond innocently.

"Tripped over a carpet," Avram repeated, nodding slowly, the laughter still in his eyes. "They might believe you. Just possibly. Is your family important?"

"Not in the slightest," Pitt answered. "My father was a servant on a rich man's estate, so was my mother. They're both dead now."

"And the rich man?"

Pitt shrugged, memory sharp. "He's dead too. But he was good to me. Educated me with his own son-to encourage him. Can't be beaten by a servant's boy." He added that to explain his speech. They probably knew English well enough to be able to tell the difference between one class and another.

They were all watching him, Cyril with deep skepticism, Musa with more open dislike. Somewhere outside, a dog began to bark. In the room it seemed to grow even hotter. Pitt could feel the sweat trickling down his body.

"So why are you in Alexandria?" Musa asked, his voice low and a little hoarse. "You didn't come just to see if we wanted cotton factories, and you didn't get here for nothing." That was an invitation to explain himself, and perhaps a warning.

Pitt decided to embroider the truth a little. "Of course not," he agreed. "A British diplomat, ex-soldier, was murdered. He was stationed here for a while, twelve years ago. They think an Egyptian in London killed him. I'm paid to prove she didn't."

"Police!" Musa snarled, moving very slightly, as if he would get up.

"They pay police to prove who is guilty, not who isn't!" Pitt snapped back at him. "At least they do in London. And no, I'm not police. If I were, don't you think I'd have got out of here by now?"

"You were senseless when they carried you in," Avram pointed out. "Who were you going to tell?"

"Isn't there a guard out there?" Pitt inclined his head towards the door.

Avram shrugged. "Probably, although no one imagines we're going to break out, more's the pity."

Pitt squinted up at the window.

Cyril stood up and went over to it, pulling experimentally at the central bar. He turned around and glared at Pitt, a slight sneer on his lip.

"You need brains to get out of here, not force," Musa said to him. "Or money?" He raised his eyebrows questioningly.

Pitt fished in his shoe. Would it be worth spending what he had, if he still had it, to make allies? They probably knew nothing about Ayesha or Lovat, but they might help him learn-if there was anything worth learning. And he was beginning to doubt that.

Their eyes never moved from him; they barely blinked.

He pulled out about two hundred piasters-enough to pay for his room at the hotel for eight days.

"That'll do!" Avram said instantly, and before Pitt could even consider a decision, the money was gone and Avram was banging on the door with his fists.

Musa nodded, his shoulders relaxing. "Good," he said with satisfaction. "Yes-good."

"That's two hundred piasters!" The words were out of Pitt's mouth before he thought. "I want something in return for it!"

Musa lifted his eyebrows. "Oh? And what would you like, then?"

Pitt's brain raced. "Someone to help me get some real information about Lieutenant Edwin Lovat when he served here with the British army, twelve years ago. I don't speak Arabic."

"So you want fifty piasters of my time?" Musa concluded. "Well, you can't have that if I'm in jail, now, can you?"

"I want a hundred and fifty piasters' worth of somebody's time," Pitt responded. "Or we all stay here."

Avram looked thoroughly entertained. "Are you making a bargain?" he asked with interest.

"I don't know," Pitt responded. "Am I?"

Avram looked at the window, then at the blind door. He raised his eyebrows in question to the others and said something in Arabic. There was a brief conversation. "Yes," he said finally to Pitt. "Yes, you are."

Pitt waited.

"I will take you to the village where the British soldiers spent their time off. I'll speak to the Egyptians for you." He held out his hand. "Now let's get out of here, before they come and do something unpleasant."

PITT HAD VERY LITTLE IDEA of what was said to the guard, but he saw the money change hands, and half an hour later he was walking on Avram's heels along an alley back on the edge of the city, and heading east again. As always, the flies and mosquitoes were cruel, but it had become habit to swat at them without thinking. His head still ached from the blow in the bazaar.

Delicate, sweet smells mixed with the general ordure as they passed a cook sitting in the dust, leaning with one shoulder against the wall. He wore a shapeless robe of dun-colored linen and canvas shoes without heels. To one side of him was a flat, open-weave basket with dates, onions and what looked like a carrot and a pomegranate. Behind him was a large earthenware jar with a broken lip, and in front of him a brazier piled on bricks, and another earthenware pot on top of it. It was the mixture in that pot which he stirred carefully, and the steam from it which ensnared the passersby. The man's skin was as black as the dates, his beard trimmed short and his head so closely shaven as to appear bald. There was a mildness and a symmetry to his features which made him almost beautiful.

He ignored Pitt and Avram as if they had been no more interesting than the donkeys in the street or the dromedary standing patiently at the opening onto the square.

Avram was several yards ahead and Pitt hurried to catch up with him. It would be worse than a waste of time to be lost here; it could be dangerous. Since the incident in the carpet bazaar he was more aware of the underlying mood of the men who appeared to be standing around talking or haggling. At times there was a stillness in their faces he realized masked a deep anger they dared not show openly. This was their city, and he was a stranger here, a member of a foreign race who had in effect taken what was theirs. That the British used it to far greater effect, efficiency, and purpose was irrelevant.

Avram turned to make sure Pitt was there, and signaled him sharply to keep up. Thereafter they walked quickly and in silence. It was already late in the afternoon, and at this time of the year the days were shortening rapidly. They needed to reach the village near the military post before dark, and it was apparently a good distance yet.

Pitt trudged through the dust on the baked road, thinking to himself that any peddler in the market who discovered an ointment to repel mosquitoes would make his own weight in gold within a week.

They passed several men with camels, an old woman on foot, a boy with a donkey, and half a dozen people obviously returning from a celebration, singing happily and waving their arms in the air.

They reached the banks of a wide waterway as the sun sank, filling the sky with a soft, yellow light. Long-beaked wading birds stood on the banks a little distance from the reeds, half a dozen in one place, twice as many twenty yards farther off. The walls of squared stones in most buildings seemed bronze, the towering palms like absurd headdresses on stilts, feathery in the still air. The only sound was the steady slurping of water by six oxen knee-deep, heads down and great polished horns looking like golden metal in the fading sun. The shadows were already deepening into shades of mulberry and purple.

"We will stay here," Avram informed him. "We will eat, and then we can begin to ask your questions."

Pitt agreed; there was nothing else he could do. So far he had learned nothing which would help Ayesha Zakhari, let alone Ryerson. If Lovat's murder sprang from anything that had happened in Egypt, he had no idea what it could have been, and only Avram, or someone like him, could question the people who lived here.

They went into one of the smaller mud-brick buildings. Avram was greeted by a man of about twenty-five, wearing a red and dun-colored striped robe and a turban of some pale shade impossible to distinguish in the light of candles and a low fire. They exchanged a few words, and Avram introduced Pitt and gave some explanation of who he was.

Avram turned to Pitt. "This is Ishaq el Shernoubi. His father, Mohamed, was an imam, a holy man. He knew a great deal of what went on here, especially among the men of the army in the past. Ishaq used to run errands for them now and again, and he has a good memory-when he likes to. He understands a great deal more English than he pretends."

Pitt smiled. He could picture it vividly, although perhaps not with much accuracy. He could also imagine that to English soldiers a young Arab might be more or less invisible, as a servant was at home. Tongues might be equally unguarded, in the assumption that an Arab also would not repeat what he had heard his betters say.

He bowed to Ishaq.

Ishaq bowed back, his eyes so dark as to seem black in the flickering light. Already the sunset had passed from primrose to a far darker burnished gold, and the brilliance was gone. The oxen were moving in the water outside, and Pitt could hear them splashing.

Avram had warned Pitt to accept the hospitality of food and not to offer recompense for it. A gift might be given at a later date when it would not look like payment, which would have been an insult. He had also, unnecessarily, warned Pitt to eat and allow the meal to be over in peace before he approached the subject of information, even obliquely.

Pitt sat cross-legged on the floor, as he was invited, and hoped that after an hour he would still be able to stand when he got up again. As the meal wore on he began to doubt that he would. He fidgeted once or twice, and saw Avram's warning glance. Avram seemed to have entered into the spirit of the quest as if finding the truth of Lovat's service here were as important to him as it was to Pitt. Pitt wondered if Avram's interest was the result of his inveterate curiosity, the love of answers and the exercise of the skill in finding them, or if he too expected some appropriate gift at a later date. Right at the moment, sitting in acute discomfort in the balmy night a thousand miles from home and anything even remotely familiar, it mattered to him not to offend, or disappoint, this curious man, and it would require a fine judgment to succeed.

Finally the last date had been eaten and with a smile Ishaq asked why Pitt had come to Egypt. It was the signal that he was ready to be of help.

"An English soldier has been killed in London," he replied casually, trying as discreetly as possible to unfold his legs and keep the agony of cramped limbs out of his face as pain shot through him. He gasped, and turned it into a cough. "He is not so important in himself, but his death threatens to create a scandal because of who is accused of having shot him," he continued, and saw some understanding replace the bewilderment in Ishaq's face. After all, if an Egyptian is killed in London, what does that matter in Alexandria? He nodded politely.

"He served in the army here about twelve years ago," Pitt added. "In England it is harder to learn much about him. I want to know his reputation, and if he earned any enemies among his fellows." Better at this time not to mention Ayesha. He could always add that later, if it seemed a good idea. "His name was Edwin Lovat."

Ishaq waited, his eyes on Pitt's face.

Pitt named Lovat's regiment and his rank, then gave a brief description of his physical appearance, trying not to sound desperate as he saw no reaction in Ishaq's face.

Ishaq nodded. "I remember them," he said without any emotion at all.

"Them?" Pitt asked, without hope. Perhaps to Ishaq English soldiers were all much the same. He could not blame him. Pitt was trained to observe and identify, and if anyone had asked him to swear to one Egyptian in the street over another, he could not have done so.

"Those four," Ishaq replied. "Always together. Fair-haired, blue-eyed, walked like..." He gave up and looked at Avram. He said something in Arabic.

"Swagger," Avram supplied.

"Do you know the names of the others?" Pitt asked. If not, he could ask the present military officials. They would tell him at least that much. It was no secret which of his colleagues a man sought out in his off-duty hours.

"Yeats," Ishaq said thoughtfully. "And Garrick," he added. "I cannot think of the last one."

"That is very good. Thank you," Pitt said eagerly. "Were they good soldiers-Lovat in particular?" The moment he had said it, he thought it stupid. How could any British soldier be good in the eyes of an Egyptian?

Avram said something in Arabic and Ishaq nodded. He answered Pitt as if it were he who had asked. "He had courage and he obeyed the rules that mattered."

Suddenly, Pitt was interested. "And the other rules?" he said softly.

Ishaq grinned, white teeth in the firelight, then suddenly he was totally serious. "The others he was careful to break only when he would not be seen," he replied.

Pitt drew in his breath to ask the obvious question.

Avram interrupted. "He was brave. That is good. A coward is of use to no one. And he was obedient, yes? A soldier who cannot obey orders is a danger to his fellows, is that not true?" This time he looked at Pitt.

"Certainly," Pitt agreed, not sure why he had been cut off. Had he been too direct, or was it a question whose answer might embarrass Ishaq? Why? Illegal dealings of some sort? Immoral? "Did the soldiers spend their time off duty in the village or go into Alexandria?" he asked.

Ishaq spread his hands. "Depends how long," he replied. "There is little to do here, but the city needs money for pleasure."

"It is a beautiful city simply to walk around," Pitt said, quite sincerely. "There is much to learn of history, the cultures of many other people; not only Egypt, but Greece, Rome, Turkey, Armenia, Jerusalem-" He stopped, seeing the look in Ishaq's face. "I did not know Lovat," he finished.

"So much I see," Ishaq said dryly. "Soldiers off duty like to eat and drink, to find women, and sometimes to explore a little, look for treasures, have fun."

It sounded time-wasting if indulged to the exclusion of all else, but harmless. He had not reached the subject of broken rules, even obliquely. It looked like it was going to be a long evening, but at least Pitt was not cross-legged anymore, although the ground was hard. He had become so used to the mosquitoes that he swatted at them without thought.

"What sort of fun?" Avram asked, but with an expression of boredom, as if he was merely filling the silence.

Ishaq shrugged. "Hunting in the marshes," he replied casually. "Birds, looked for crocodiles occasionally. I think they went upriver once or twice. I arranged it for them."

"To look at the temples and ruins?" Pitt asked, trying to keep the same tone of voice as Avram.

"Think so," Ishaq agreed. "Went all the way up to Cairo once. See the pyramids at Giza, and so on." He grinned. "Got caught in a sandstorm, so they said. Mostly, though, they stayed closer."

It was not worth pursuing, but there was little else to say to keep the conversation alive. Pitt was beginning to lose hope of learning anything about Lovat that would even show his character, let alone any idea why he had been murdered. Perhaps all he would learn in Egypt was that Ayesha Zakhari was a highly educated and passionate patriot rather than a woman seeking to make use of her beauty to buy the luxuries of life.

"They usually went together, all four of them?" he asked. Perhaps he would be able to find at least one or two of these other men and learn more details of Lovat from their recollections.

"Mostly," Ishaq agreed. "Not so safe to wander around alone." He regarded Pitt closely, to see if he understood without having it spelled out to him, word for word, that the English were occupiers, an armed force in a foreign land, and as such, very naturally subjects of many emotions, some of them violent.

Pitt understood it very well. He could feel it in the air, see it in the covert glances of people when they thought themselves unobserved, both men and women. There might be gratitude for financial rescue, but no one liked to be obliged, or dependent. There would be individual affections and hatreds, like Trenchard's love for his Egyptian mistress. There would be a certain respect, possibly curiosity, and even at times a growing understanding. But always the anger was close under the surface. The memory of the bombardment of Alexandria would make it sharper now, but the same feelings would have been there then, only more deeply buried.

They sat in silence a few minutes. The sound of the oxen moving in the water was relaxing, a steady, natural noise. The night wind carried a breath of coolness, refreshing after the long, hot day.

"And of course there was the woman," Ishaq said, watching Pitt more closely than he pretended. "But if anyone were to kill him for that, they would have done it then. She was the daughter of a rich man, a learned man, but a Christian. Not as if she were a Muslim. That might have caused trouble... a lot of trouble. Very Christian, Mr. Lovat." In the darkness of the hut his face was unreadable, but Pitt heard a dozen different emotions in his voice. If Ishaq had been English, Pitt might have been able to discern them, untangle one from another, but he was in an alien land, an old and infinitely complex culture, and speaking to a man whose ancestors had created this extraordinary civilization thousands of years before Christ, let alone before a British Empire. In fact, the pharaohs had ruled an empire of their own before Moses was born, or Abraham fled the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah.

The earth under him was unyielding, the air still heavy and warm, and he could hear the beasts moving now and then outside in the starlit night, all as real as the hard ground and the whine of mosquitoes, and yet he felt an unreality of the mind as if his presence here were a dream. It was hard to remember that Saville Ryerson was actually in prison in London, and that Narraway expected Pitt to find some way to avert scandal.

"Very Christian?" he asked.

"Very." Ishaq nodded, the emotions remaining unreadable in his voice. "Used to go out to that holy place, the shrine down by the river. Loved it. He was upset because it is a very holy place indeed... a shrine for us as well."

"Us?" Pitt was puzzled. "For Islam?"

"Yes. Before it was-" Ishaq stopped.

Avram looked at him, his face somber.

Ishaq stared past Pitt. "It was my father who buried them all," he said so quietly Pitt barely heard the words. "I remember his face for months after that. I thought he would never get over it. Perhaps he didn't-he had dreams about it for the rest of his life. It was worst when he was dying." He took a deep, shaky breath and let it out slowly. "My sister looked after him, did what she could to make him easy, but she couldn't stop the ghosts from coming back." His face looked pinched and his voice was thick with emotion. "He used to talk to her for hours, telling her about it because he couldn't help himself. He had dreams... terrible dreams... the blood and the burst flesh, cooked like meat, faces charred until eyes could hardly tell they had once been human... I'd hear him crying out-" He stopped.

Pitt turned to Avram, but Avram shook his head.

They waited in silence.

"Fire," Ishaq said at last. "Thirty-four of them, as far as anyone could count, in the ashes. They were trapped inside."

"I'm sorry," Pitt said softly. He had seen fire in England; he knew the devastation, the smell of burning flesh that never left his memory.

Ishaq shook his head. "My father's dead, and my sister too now."

Avram looked startled. "I didn't know that!"

Ishaq bit his lip and swallowed hard. "In Alexandria... an accident."

"I'm sorry." Avram shook his head. "She was beautiful." He said it as if he was speaking of far more than merely what the eye could see.

Ishaq opened his mouth to say something, but for a moment he had not the control to master the grief within himself.

Pitt and Avram remained silent. It was dark outside now. The stars were visible through the open window, needle sharp in the velvet of the sky. The air was cooler at last.

Ishaq looked up at last. "I think Lieutenant Lovat was sickened by the fire as well," he observed, his voice quite level now. "It wasn't long after that when he got ill. Fever of some sort, they said. Seemed to be a bit of it in the camp. He was shipped home. Never saw him again."

"Did his friends stay?" Pitt asked.

"No," Ishaq replied softly. "They all went, for different reasons. Don't know what happened to them. Sent somewhere else, I expect. The British Empire is very big. Perhaps India? They can sail past Suez and down that new canal to half the earth, can't they." That was a statement, not a question. There was no lift in his voice to imply doubt.

"Yes," Pitt murmured, hoping profoundly that he would find at least one of them in London, not have to conduct questions by telegraph through some deputed official. And Ishaq was right-half the world was accessible to Britain through that genius of negotiation and engineering, the Suez Canal. Thinking of the critical importance of it to the economy and the rule of law to the entire empire, and all that meant, it was inconceivable that Britain could ever give back complete autonomy to Egypt. Cotton was only a tiny part of it. How had Ayesha Zakhari ever imagined she could succeed? The hostage of economic dependence was far too precious to yield.

Pitt felt a weight of darkness descend on him as if he were trying to untangle an impenetrable knot, and every thread he pulled only bound it tighter.

"Thank you for your hospitality," he said aloud, inclining his head to Ishaq. "Your food and your conversation have both enriched me. I am in your debt."

Ishaq was pleased; the evidence of it was something indefinable in his expression, the angle of his body, now only dimly seen in the waning candlelight.

They stayed only a few minutes longer, then left with repeated thanks.

Back on the path by the water's edge, the surface now a pale glimmer reflecting no more than the odd ripple of starlight, it was difficult to see where they were going, and Pitt realized how tired he was. His body ached not only from sitting on the ground but from the bruises gained in the incident in the carpet bazaar, and his head pounded from being hit by the police. Now, more than anything else at all, even a perfect solution to Lovat's death which would exonerate both Ryerson and Ayesha, he wanted to lie down on something soft and sink into a long, profound sleep.

He followed Avram, almost as much by sound of footfall on the dry earth as by sight, for another mile at least, before just about bumping into him when they came to a large solitary hut well away from the water. They were offered hospitality, at a price Avram paid on the promise from Pitt that he would yield up his share when they returned to Alexandria and San Stefano. At the rate he was spending, Pitt would be obliged to ask Trenchard to forward him more funds, and reclaim them from the consulate, and eventually from Narraway.

THE NEXT MORNING was cooler than before. It had a luminous, silvery clarity away from the city, and lying between the vast inland water to the south of Alexandria, and the Mahmudiya Canal leading towards the Nile itself, the reflections of light early in the day were of extraordinary beauty. The dark silhouette of camels with their silent, lurching gait was more like a dream than a reality.

Today Pitt would go to the military authorities of the post where Lovat had served. After a breakfast of fruit, dates, bread, and thick black coffee which came in a cup barely larger than a thimble, he set off. Avram accompanied him, although this time his presence was unnecessary. Pitt had the strong feeling he came largely in order not to allow Pitt the chance of escaping without fulfilling his financial obligations. Avram would not have put it so insultingly, but he was caring for his investment.

It took nearly an hour of argument and abrasive persuasion before Pitt found himself with a thin, mahogany-skinned officer of very apparent short temper and dislike of curious civilians. They stood side by side on a small shaded veranda looking onto the sun-baked drill yard. Another soldier had been left outside to wait.

"Special Branch?" Colonel Margason said with distaste. "Some kind of special police. Good God! What is the world coming to? Never thought London would stoop to that." He glared at Pitt. "Well, what do you want? I don't know any scandal about anyone, and if I did I should deal with it to a man's face, not go whispering about it behind his back."

Pitt was tired, aching, and covered with mosquito bites. There was hardly a part of him which did not hurt in one way or another.

"Then if I am unfortunate enough to be detailed to catch a spy in your command, I shall know not to expect any help from you... sir," he said testily, and saw Margason flush with annoyance. "However," he went on, "it is on behalf of a man murdered in London that I am enquiring. His death appears to have an Egyptian connection, and the only one we are aware of is his service at this post, some twelve years ago. It would be pleasant to be able to clear his character of any slurs that his defense in court may come up with, as soon as they are made, rather than simply denying them blindly, which too often is not believed."

Margason grunted. Dislike was set even harder between them, but Pitt's argument was undeniable, and whatever he felt about Pitt, he would defend the honor of his regiment. "What was his name?" he demanded.

"Edwin Lovat," Pitt replied, sitting down carefully on one of the chairs, as if he intended to remain as long as was necessary to get all he wanted, to the last word. Actually, the seat was hard and not particularly comfortable. It caught him in exactly the same places as the ground had yesterday evening, not to mention where he had slept on a straw palliasse through the night.

"Lovat," Margason repeated thoughtfully, and still standing. "Before my time in command, but I'll see what I can do. General Garrick was in charge then. Gone home. Find him in London, I imagine." He smiled sarcastically. "Could have saved yourself a journey. Or didn't you think of looking at any records? Heaven help Special Branch if you're typical."

"We do not take one man's opinion, unsubstantiated, Colonel Margason," Pitt said as levelly as he could. "Nor are we relying on military information alone. The man was murdered in extraordinary circumstances, and a senior minister in the government is implicated. We cannot afford to leave any possibility unexamined."

Margason grunted again, and kept his eyes on the bare, foot-pounded yard with its surrounding sand and earth-colored buildings. "Don't read that type of thing in the newspapers. Haven't got time. More to do out here." He grunted a little at the blazing sun outside. "Lot of unrest. More than they think in London, sitting in their offices. One really bad incident and it could all blow."

"I've seen it," Pitt agreed. "Nasty incident in the carpet bazaar yesterday. English officer fortunate not to be killed."

Margason's mouth pulled tight. "There's bound to be. Gordon was murdered in Khartoum, and we still haven't settled that. Damned Mahdi is dead, but that means little. Dervishes all over the place. Bloody madmen!" His voice trembled very slightly. "Kill the whole lot of us if we gave them the chance. And you come here asking about the reputation of one soldier who served in Alexandria twelve years ago and got himself killed in London. Good God, man, aren't you competent to keep a damned cabinet minister out of it without coming traipsing out here to waste my time with questions?"

"I would waste less of it if you would tell me about Lovat," Pitt replied. "Haven't you got an officer who remembers him with more detail, and more honesty, than the written records of his service? The woman accused is someone he knew when he was here."

"Really? He jilted her and she kept a grudge all those years? Remarkable. Did he rape her?" Margason sounded contemptuous, but not personally offended. Pitt was not even sure whether the man's disgust was for Lovat or his victim.

"Did your soldiers often rape the local women?" Pitt said with something close to innocence. "Perhaps you would have less difficulty keeping the ill feeling from erupting if you stopped that."

"Look, you impudent..." Margason snarled, whirling around with the tension and agility of an animal about to spring.

Pitt did not move. "Yes?" He raised his eyebrows.

Margason straightened up. "I was here then, but I was only a major. I don't know anything about Lovat except that he was a good soldier, not remarkable. He courted a local woman, but according to all I've heard, it was perfectly in order. Just a young man's romantic fantasy about the exotic. She certainly never had any complaint. He was invalided out."

"What with?"

"No idea," Margason replied. "Some kind of fever. No one was paying a great deal of attention then. We were all expecting trouble. It was shortly after the incident at the shrine. Over thirty people were killed in a fire. All Muslims, but the shrine was Christian as well, and feelings ran very high. We were afraid of religious battles breaking out. Colonel Garrick was very decisive. Stamped it out immediately. Arranged for burial, memorial, everything. Posted a guard on the place. Any man after that caught treating the Muslims with disrespect was confined to barracks."

"And were there further incidents?" Pitt asked, remembering what Ishaq had said.

"No," Margason replied without hesitation. "I told you, Garrick was very good. But it must have taken a great deal of skill and tight discipline. A case of fever that a man recovered from was hardly going to stay in the memory at such a time."

"Do you usually send men home for a fever?"

"If it's a recurrent sort, you might as well. Malaria, or something like that." Margason shook his head. "You can find the medical officer's report if you want to. I haven't got time to find it for you. Far as I know, Lovat was a good officer, sent home for medical reasons. Loss to the army, but plenty for him to do in England. Talk to anyone you like, just don't start rumors, and don't waste our time."

Pitt stood up. Margason would tell him nothing more, and he had no intention of wasting his own time either. He thanked him and availed himself of the permission to speak to the other men.

Pitt spent the rest of the day asking and listening, and he formed a far clearer picture of Lovat, particularly from a lean and wind-burned sergeant major who was finally persuaded to speak with some candor. It took a lot of recollections from Pitt of the London east end, where the sergeant major had grown up, descriptions, a trifle sentimental, of the dockside and the river stretch towards Greenwich, but eventually the man relaxed. They were walking slowly beside one of the many delta branches of one of the greatest rivers in Africa in the milk-soft, peach-colored glow of early sunset before he spoke of Lovat.

"I couldn't stand 'im meself," he said with cheerful contempt, his eye following a flight of birds, black against the luminous sky. "But 'e weren't a bad soldier."

"Why did you dislike him?" Pitt asked curiously.

"B'cause 'e was a self-righteous bastard," the sergeant major said. "I judge a man by 'ow 'e be'aves hisself when the goin's 'ard an' that, an' when 'e's drunk. See a lot o' truth about a man when 'is guard's down." He squinted sideways at Pitt to see if he understood. Apparently he was satisfied. "Got no time for a man wot wears 'is religion 'ard. Don' get me wrong, I in't no lover o' Mohammed, or anythink 'e says. An' the way they treat women is summink awful. But the way we does things sometimes in't no better. Live an' let live, I say."

"Had Lovat no respect for the religion of Islam?" Pitt asked, not sure if it made any difference. He would hardly have been killed in London for that.

"Worse 'n that," the sergeant major replied, his face puckering into a frown, dark as a bronze statue in the waning light. " 'E were angry about anythink they 'ad as 'e reckoned should 'a bin Christian. Burned the 'ell out of 'im that they ever took Jerusalem. ' 'Oly city,' 'e said. An' all places like that."

"And yet he fell in love with an Egyptian woman," Pitt pointed out.

"Oh, yeah. I know all about that. Mad about 'er, 'e were, for a time. But she were a Copt, so that made it all right." He pulled his face into an expression of disgust. "Not that 'e were ever gonna marry 'er, like. It were just one o' them things yer do when yer young, an' in a foreign place. 'Is society'd 'a had pups if 'e'd come 'ome with a foreign wife!"

"Did you know her?" Pitt asked.

"Not to say know," the sergeant major replied. "Beautiful, she were," he said wistfully. "Moved like them birds in the air." He gestured towards another flight of river birds gliding across the sunset.

"Did you know Lovat's friends-Garrick and Yeats?" Pitt asked.

" 'Course I did. An' Sandeman. All gone 'ome now. Invalided out at the same time. Got the same fever, I s'pose."

"Out of the army? All of them?"

The sergeant major shrugged. "Dunno. I 'eard as Yeats were dead, poor sod. Killed in some kind o' military action, so I reckon 'e must 'a stayed in, just got posted somewhere wi' a diff'rent climate. Yer wanna know about them too? Yer thinkin' as they might 'a killed 'im?" He shook his head. "Dunno wot for. Still, that's yer job, not mine, thank Gawd. I just gotta see that this lot"-he jerked his hand towards the dark silhouette of the barracks-"keeps order 'ere in Egypt."

"Do you think that's going to be difficult?" Pitt asked, more for something to say than because he expected the man to know, and then the moment after, he realized he cared. The timeless beauty of the land would remain with him long after he went back to the modern urgency of London. He would always wish he had had time, and money, to go up the river and see the Valley of the Kings, the great temples and ruins of a civilization which ruled the world it knew before Christ was born.

And he also realized how profoundly he wanted Ayesha to be innocent, and to be able to prove it. He now believed she had gone to England to try to accomplish something for the economic freedom of her people. She had been looking for a justice she was not sophisticated enough to know would never be granted as long as the cotton mills of Lancashire fed and clothed a million people, who also were poor, with all the misery and disease that poverty brought, but who had political power in London. And even larger than that, a few miles across the desert older than mankind, ochre and shadow under the first stars, lay the modern miracle of a canal cutting its way from the Mediterranean to the Indian Ocean, and the other half of the empire.

He stood beside the sergeant major and watched the very last of the light die before thanking him, and going to look for Avram, to tell him that tomorrow they would return to Alexandria, where he would find Avram a suitable reward for his help.