The silence was complete. Not a chair creaked, not a breath was drawn. Wardani studied the downcast faces of his allies, and his upper lip drew back in a smile.

“So that is settled. Now to business, eh?”

Only two of them took part in the conversation—Wardani and the gray-bearded man. Finally the latter said, in answer to a question from Wardani, “Two hundred, to start. With a hundred rounds of ammunition for each. More later, if you can find the men to use them.”

“Hmmm.” Wardani scratched his chin. “How many others have you approached with this enticing offer?”

“None.”

“You lie.”

The other man rose and reached for his knife. “You dare call me a liar?”

“Sit down,” Wardani said contemptuously. “You made the same offer to Nuri al-Sa’id and to that scented sodomite el-Gharbi. Sa’id will sell the weapons to the highest bidder, and el-Gharbi will laugh himself sick and ship the guns to the Senussi. Do you think his women and his pretty boys will shoot at the British troops, who are their best customers? No!” He brought his fist down on the table, and fixed a furious glare on the Bedouin. “Be quiet and listen to me. I am the best and only hope of your masters, and I am willing to discuss the matter with them. With them, not with middlemen and underlings! You will inform your German friends that they have forty-eight hours to arrange a meeting. And don’t tell me that is not time enough; do you suppose I am unaware of the fact that they have agents here in the city? If you do as I ask, I won’t tell them about the others. Make your shady little arrangements and collect your dirty little baksheesh from them. Well?”

Graybeard was quivering with rage and frustration. He called Wardani a vile name and strode toward the door.

“The back way, you son of an Englishman,” Wardani said.

The narrow panel at the back of the room looked like a door for an animal, not a man; the Bedouin had to bend his knees and bow his head to get through, which did not improve his temper. “I will kill you one day,” he promised.

“Better men than you have tried,” said Wardani. “In the meantime—the Khan el Khalili, the shop of Aslimi Aziz, at this same hour the day after tomorrow. Someone will be there.”

“You?”

“One never knows.”

The only one who dared speak was the man with the squint. He waited until the door had closed behind the Arab.

“Was that wise, Kamil? He won’t come back.”

“But yes, my friend.” Wardani now spoke French. “He will have to come back because his German masters will insist. They are clever persons, these Germans; they know I wield more power in Cairo than any other man, and that I hate the British as much as they do. I gave him a way out—a way to hide his dishonor and make his profit. That is how one deals with Turks.”

“Turk?” The dark eyes widened. “He is an Arab and a brother.”

Wardani gave his young friend a kindly look and shook his head. “You need to apply yourself to the study of languages, my dear. The accent was unmistakable. Well, we’ve been here long enough; we meet again two days from now.”

“But you, sir,” the tall youth ventured. “Have you found a safe hiding place? How can we reach you if there is need?”

“You cannot. Merde alors, if you are unable to keep out of trouble for two days, you need a nursemaid, not a leader.”

He replaced his hat and went to the curtained entrance. Before he drew the hanging back, he turned and grinned at the others. “Ramses Emerson Effendi does not crawl through holes, but that is your way out, friends. One or two at a time.”

He went through the front room and into the street, walking with long strides but without haste. After passing the convent mosque of Beybars he turned off the Gamalieh into a narrow lane and broke into a run. Many of the old houses that abutted on the lane had fallen into ruin, but a few were still occupied; a lantern by one door cast a feeble light. Pausing in front of a recessed doorway, Wardani bent his knees and sprang, catching hold of the top of the lintel and drawing himself up onto a carved ledge eight feet above the ground. An unnecessary precaution, perhaps, but he had not remained alive until now by neglecting unnecessary precautions.

He did not have to wait long. The form that picked its way cautiously along the littered alley was unmistakable. Farouk was six inches taller than any of the others, and vain as a peacock; the shawl he had wrapped round his head and face was of fine muslin, and the light glinted off the silver ornament on his breast.

Perched on the ledge, Wardani waited until his pursuer had passed out of sight around a curve in the winding lane. Then he waited a little longer before stripping off coat, waistcoat, and stiff collar and rolling them and the hat into an anonymous bundle. Shortly thereafter a stoop-shouldered, ragged old man shuffled out of the lane and proceeded along the Gamalieh. He stopped at the stall of a bean seller and counted out coins in exchange for a bowl of fuul medemes. Leaning against the wall, he ate without really tasting the food. He was thinking hard.

He’d feared Farouk would be trouble. Despite his pretty face, he was several years older than the others, and a new recruit, and Wardani hadn’t missed the flash of anger in the black eyes when he forbade action against the Emersons. There was only one reason he could think of why Farouk would follow him, and it wasn’t concern for his safety.

That was all he needed, an ambitious rival. He wondered how much longer he could keep this up. Just long enough, inshallah—long enough to get his hands on those weapons… He returned the empty bowl to the merchant with a murmured blessing and shambled off.

(The editor has omitted the following description, since it is repeated by Mrs. Emerson.)

Excavation is, essentially, an act of destruction. To clear a site, tomb, temple or tell down to the lowest level means that all the upper levels are gone forever. For this reason it is absolutely essential to keep detailed records of what has been removed. My distinguished spouse was one of the first to establish the principles of modern excavation: precise measurements, accurate copies of all inscriptions and reliefs, innumerable photographs, and the thorough sifting of the debris. I could not quarrel with Emerson’s high standards, but I must admit that there were times when I wished he would stop fussing and get on with the job. I had made the mistake of saying something of the sort when we began digging that season. Emerson had rounded on me with bared teeth and an impressive scowl.