office.

She felt anger rising in her. This was one of the major treasures of her

very Egypt. It had been plundered and stolen from one of her country's

sacred sites. It did not belong here. It belonged on the banks of the

great river Nile. She felt herself shaking with the strength of her

emotion as she went forward to examine the statue more closely and to

read the hieroglyphic inscription on the base.

The royal cartouche stood out in the centre of the arrogant warning: "I

am the divine Ramesses, master of ten thousand chariots - Fear me, of ye

enemies of Egypt."

Royan had not read the translation aloud; it was a soft, deep voice

close behind her that spoke, startling her. She had not heard anyone

approaching. She spun round to find him standing close enough to touch.

His hands were thrust into the pockets of a shapeless blue cardigan.

There was a hole in one elbow. He wore faded denim jeans over well'worn

but monogrammed velvet carpet slippers - the type of genteel shabbiness

that certain Englishmen often cultivate, for it would never do to seem

too concerned with one's appearance.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to startle you," He smiled eazy.

'le of apology, and his teeth were very white but slightly "t smi

crooked. Suddenly his expression changed as he recognized her.

"Oh, it's you." She should have been flattered that he remembered her

from so fleeting a contact, but there was that flash of something in his

eyes again that offended her.

Nevertheless, she could not refuse the hand he offered her.

"Nick Quenton-Harper," he introduced himself. "You must be Percival

Dixon's old student. I think I saw you at the shoot last Thursday.

Weren't you beating for us?"

His manner was friendly and forthright, so she felt her hackles

subsiding as she responded, "Yes. I am Royan Al Simma. I think you knew

my husband, Duraid Al Simma."

"Duraid! Of course, I know him. Grand old fellow. We spent a lot of time

in the desert together. One of the very best. How is he?"

"He's dead." She had not meant it to sound so bald and heartless, but

then there was no other reply she could think of.

"I am so terribly sorry. I didn't know. When and how did it happen?"

"Very recently, three weeks ago. He was murdered.

"Oh, my God." She saw the sympathy in his eyes, and she remembered that

he also had suffered. "I telephoned him in Cairo not more than four

months ago. He was his old charming self Have they found the person who

did it?"

She shook her head and looked around the hall to avoid having to -face

him and let him see that her eyes were wet. "You have an extraordinary

collection here."

He accepted the change of subject at once. Thanks mostly to my

grandfather. He was on the staff of Evelyn Baring - Over Bearing, as his

numerous enemies called him. He was the British man in . Cairo during-'

She cut him short. "Yes, I have heard of Evelyn Baring, the first Earl

of Cromer, British Consul-General of Egypt from 1883 to 1907. With his

plenipotentiary powers he was the unchallenged dictator of my country

for all that period. Numerous enemies, as you say."

Nicholas's eyes narrowed slightly. "Percival warned me you were one of

his best students. He didn't, however, warn me of your strong

nationalistic feelings. It is clear that you didn't need me to translate

the Ramesses inscription for you."

"My own father was on the staff of Gama! Abdel Nasser," she murmured.

Nasser was the man who had toppled the puppet King Farouk and finally

broken the British power in Egypt. As president he had nationalized the

Suez Canal in the face of British outrage.

"HaV he chuckled. "Different sides of the track. But things have

changed. I hope we don't have to be enemies?"

"Not at all," she agreed. "Duraid held you in the highest esteem."

"As I did him." He changed the subject again. "We ar very proud of our

collection of royal ushabd Examples from the tomb of every pharaoh from

the old Kingdom onwards, right up to the last of the Ptolemys. Please

let me show it to you." She followed him to the huge display case that

occupied one complete wall of the hall. It was lined with shelf after

shelf of the doll-like figures which had been placed in the tombs to act

as servants and slaves for the dead kings in the shadow world.

With his own key Nicholas opened the glazed doors of the case and

reached up to bring down the most interesting of the exhibits. "This is

the ushabd of Maya who served under three pharaohs, Tutankhamen, Ay and

Horemheb.

It is from the -tomb of Ay who died in 1343 Bc."

He handed the doll to her and she read aloud the three thousand-year-old

hieroglyphics as easily as though they had been the headlines of that

morning's newspaper.

"I am Maya, Treasurer of the two Kingdoms. I will answer for the divine

Pharaoh Ay. May he live for ever!" She spoke in Arabic to test him, and

his reply in the same language was fluent and colloquial, "It seems that

Percival Dixon told me the truth. You must have been an exceptional

student."

Engrossed now in their common interest, speaking alternately Arabic and

English, the initial sharp prickles.of antagonism between them were

dulled. They moved slowly round the hall, lingering before each display

case to handle and examine minutely each object that it contained.

It was as though they were transported back over the millennia. Hours

and days seemed of no consequence in the face of such antiquity, and so

it startled both of them when Mrs. Street returned to interrupt them, "I

am off now, Sir Nicholas. Can I leave it to you to lock up and set the

alarm? The security guards are on duty already."

"What time is it?"Nicholas answered his own question by glancing at the

stainless steel Rolex Submariner on his wrist. "Five-forty already, what

on earth happened to the day?" He sighed theatrically. "Off you go, Mrs.

Street. Sorry we kept you so long."

"Don't forget to set the alarm," she warned him, and then to Royan, "He

can be so absent-minded when he is off on one of his hobby-horses." Her

fondness towards her employer was obviously that of an indulgent aunt.

"You've given me enough orders for one day. Off you go," Nicholas

grinned, as he turned back to Royan. "Can't let you go without showing

you something that Duraid."was in on with me. Can you stay for a few

minutes longer?" She nodded and he reached out as if to take her arm,

and then dropped his hand. In the Arab world it is insulting to touch a

woman, even in such a casual manner. She was aware of the courtesy, and

she warmed to his good manners and easy style a little more.

He led her out of the exhibition halls through a door marked "Private.

Staff Only', and down a long corridor to the room at the end.

The inner sanctum." He ushered her in. "Excuse the mess'. I must really

get around to tidying up in here one of these years. My wife used to-'

He broke off abruptly, and he glanced at the silver-framed photograph of

a family group on his desk. Nicholas and a beautiful dark-haired woman

sat on a picnic rug under the spreading branches of an oak. There were