“We are at war, my dear,” Ramses replied in an exaggerated public-school drawl. “We can allow nothing to appear in print that might give aid and comfort to the enemy.” He added in his normal tones, “You had better not pass on any personal confidences to Lia when you write her. The post will also be read and censored, quite possibly by an officer who is an acquaintance of yours.”

Nefret’s brow furrowed. “Who?”

“I’ve no idea. But you do know most of them, don’t you?”

“That would be an unacceptable violation of the fundamental rights of free English persons,” I exclaimed. “The rights for which we are fighting, the basic—”

“Yes, Mother. All the same, it will be done.”

“Nefret does not know anything that could give aid and comfort to the enemy,” I insisted. “However… Nefret, you didn’t tell Lia about our encounter with Wardani, did you?”

“I haven’t mentioned anything that might worry her,” Nefret said. “Which leaves me with very little to write about! The primary topic of conversation in Cairo is the probability of an attack on the Canal, and I am certainly not going to tell her that.”

“Damned war,” said Emerson. “I don’t know why you insist on talking about it.”

“I was not talking about the war, but about Mr. Wardani,” I reminded him. “If there were only some way we could manage to talk with him! I feel certain I could convince him that for his own good and the good of Egypt he ought to modify his strategy. It would be criminal to throw away his life for what is at present a hopeless cause; he has the potential to become a great leader, the Simуn Bolнvar or Abraham Lincoln of Egypt !”

The line between Nefret’s brows disappeared, and she emitted one of her musical, low-pitched laughs. “I’m sorry,” she sputtered. “I had a sudden image of Aunt Amelia knocking Mr. Wardani over the head with her parasol and holding him prisoner in one of our guest rooms, where she can lecture him daily. With tea and cucumber sandwiches, of course.”

“Enjoy your little joke, Nefret,” I said. “All I want to do is talk with him. I am reckoned to have fair powers of persuasion, you know. Is there nothing you can do, Ramses? You have your own peculiar methods of finding people—you tracked Wardani down once before, if I remember correctly.”

Ramses leaned back against the cushions and lit a cigarette. “That was entirely different, Mother. He knew I wouldn’t have done anything to betray him so long as David was involved. Now he has no reason to trust me, and a hunted fugitive is inclined to strike first and apologize afterward.”

“Quite right,” Emerson ejaculated. “I cannot imagine what you were thinking of, Peabody , to suggest such a thing. Ramses, I strictly forbid… uh… I earnestly request that you will make no attempt to find Wardani. If he didn’t cut your throat, one of his fanatical followers would.”

“Yes, sir,” said Ramses.

They met just after nightfall, in a coffee shop in the Tumbakiyeh, the tobacco warehouse district. Massive doors, iron-hinged and nail-studded, closed the buildings where the tumbak was stored; but much of the area was falling into decay, the spacious khans abandoned, the homes of the old merchant princes partitioned into tenements.

There were four of them, sitting cross-legged around a low table in a back room separated from the coffee shop itself by a closed door and a heavy curtain. A single oil lamp on the table illumined the oblong board on which the popular game called mankaleh was played, but none of them, not even the players, was paying much attention to the distribution of the pebbles. Conversation was sparse, and a listener might have been struck by the fact that names were not used.

Finally a large gray-bearded man, dressed like a Bedouin in khafiya and caftan, muttered, “This is a stupid place to meet and a dangerous time. It is too early. The streets are full of people, the shops are lighted—”

“The Inglizi are drinking at their clubs and hotels, and others are at the evening meal.” The speaker was a man in his early twenties, heavily built for an Egyptian, but with the unmistakable scholar’s squint. “You are new to our group, my friend; do not question the wisdom of our leader. One is less conspicuous in a crowd at sunset than in a deserted street at midnight .”

The older man grunted. “He is late.”

The two who had not yet spoken exchanged glances. Both were clad like members of the poorer class, in a single outer garment of blue linen and turbans of coarse white cotton, but there was something of the student about them too. A pair of thick spectacles magnified the eyes of one man; he kept poking nervously at the folds of his turban, as if he were unaccustomed to wearing that article of dress. The other youth was tall and graceful, his smooth cheeks rounded, his eyes fringed with thick dark lashes. His zaboot was open from the neck nearly to the waist; on the sleek brown skin of his chest lay an ornament more commonly worn by women, a small silver case containing a selection from the Koran. It was he who responded to the Bedouin. “He comes when he chooses. Make your move.”

A few minutes later the curtain at the door was swept aside and a man entered. He wore European clothing—trousers and tweed coat, kid gloves, and a broad-brimmed hat that shadowed the upper part of his face but exposed a prominent aquiline nose and clean-shaven chin. The gray-bearded man sprang up, his hand on his knife. The others stared and started, and the handsome youth clapped his hand to his chest.

“So you appreciate my little joke. Convincing, is it?”

The voice was Wardani’s, the swagger with which he approached the table, the wolfish grin. He swept off his hat and bowed ironically to the Bedouin. “Salaam aleikhum. Don’t be so quick to go for the knife. There is nothing illegal about this little gathering. We are only five.”

The bespectacled student let out a string of pious oaths and wiped his sweating palms on his skirt. “You have shaved your beard!”

“How observant.” They continued to stare, and Wardani said impatiently, “A false beard is easily assumed. This widens the range of disguises available to me—not only a clean-shaven chin but a variety of facial decorations. I learned a number of such tricks from David, who had learned them from his friend.”

“But—but you look exactly like him!”

“No,” Wardani said. “Take a closer look.” He stooped so that the single lamp shone on his face. “At a distance I resemble the notorious Brother of Demons closely enough to pass unmolested by a police officer, but you, my band of heroes, should not be so easily deceived—or intimidated.”

“I see the difference now, of course,” one of them said.

A chorus of embarrassed murmurs seconded the statement. “He would intimidate me if he walked into this room,” the bespectacled student admitted. “They say he has friends in every street in Cairo , that he talks with afreets and the ghosts of the dead… Pure superstition, of course,” he added hastily.

“Of course,” Wardani said. He straightened and remained standing, looking down at the others.

The handsome boy cleared his throat. “Superstition, no doubt; but he is an enemy, and dangerous. The same is true of his family. Emerson Effendi and the Sitt Hakim were with Russell the other night. Perhaps we should take steps to render them harmless.”

“Steps?” Wardani’s voice was very soft. With a sudden movement he swept the game from the table. The aged wood of the board split when it struck the floor, and pebbles rattled and rolled. Wardani planted both hands on the table. “You presume on your position, I believe. You are my chosen aides, for the present, but you do not give the orders. You take them—from me.”

“I did not mean—”

“You have the brains of a louse. Leave them strictly alone, do you understand? All of them! There is one true thing in the lies they tell about the Father of Curses. When his anger is aroused he is more dangerous than a wounded lion. He is not our friend, but he is no pawn of Thomas Russell’s either. Touch his wife or his daughter and he will hunt you down without mercy. And there is another thing.” Wardani lowered his voice to a menacing whisper. “They are friends of my friend. I could not look him in the face again if I had allowed any one of them to be harmed.”