Pitt stared at him in slowly dawning comprehension as to the magnitude of what he was being asked to do. It overwhelmed him. He had no idea how even to begin, let alone weigh any conclusion. He knew nothing about Egypt except fragments he had picked up in conversation, newspapers, and a little more recently about the cotton grown there. He did not know the city of Alexandria; he would be utterly lost. The climate would be nothing like London, or the food, the clothes, the customs.

And yet at the same moment as fear gripped him, so did a kind of excitement which grew with each second, and the words of acceptance were on his lips before he had thought clearly of how he could succeed.

“Yes, sir. What is the best way? Thomas Cook?”

The shadow of a smile touched Narraway’s lips. “It was an order, Pitt, not a request. Your only alternative would have been your resignation. But I’m pleased I did not have to make that point to you.” At last he turned and looked up. His eyes were cautious, softer for a few minutes. “Be careful, Pitt. Egypt is not an easy place at the moment, and you are going there to probe into delicate issues. I want the information, but I would like you back alive. Your death in some back street would not reflect well on my professional reputation.” He picked the money up from the top of the desk and with it a plain white envelope. “Here are your tickets, and what I believe will be sufficient funds. If you need more, go to Mr. Trenchard at the British Consulate, but don’t trust him more than you have to.”

Pitt took the money and tickets. “Thank you.”

“You sail from Southampton on the evening tide tomorrow,” Narraway added.

Pitt turned to leave. He would have to be on the first train in the morning, and he had to pack. It had not yet even occurred to him to think what clothes he owned would be even remotely suitable.

“Pitt!” Narraway’s voice recalled him sharply.

He turned. “Yes?”

“Be careful. This is probably exactly what it looks like-a man with more passion than sense. But just in case it is political, something to do with cotton or… or God knows what… listen more than you talk. Learn to watch without asking questions. You’re not police in Alexandria.” His face looked suddenly weary, as if he was already anticipating griefs that had not yet happened, or perhaps remembering those that had. “There’ll be no one to protect you. Your white skin will be as much against you as for. For God’s sake, man, take a little care!” He said it angrily, as if Pitt was in the habit of running wild risks, and it was that which touched Pitt with a coldness of fear, because he had seldom if ever really jeopardized his own life, except perhaps in Whitechapel, on his first assignment for Narraway. He was used to the safety of office, which was not a uniform but as good as one.

He found his mouth dry when he answered. “Yes, sir,” he said stiffly, and went out before Narraway could say anything further, or Pitt could betray his feelings.

“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.