gave him her full attention once more. "I have spoken to the minister

again, but I do not think he believes in me. I think that Nahoot has

convinced him that I am a little mad." He smiled sadly. Nahoot Guddabi

was his ambitious and well-connected deputy. "At any rate the minister

says that there are no government funds available, and that I will have

to seek outside finance.

So, I have been over the list of possible sponsors again, and have

narrowed it down to four. There is the Getty Museum of course, but I

never like to work with a big impersonal institution. I prefer to have a

single man to answer to.

Decisions are always easier to reach."None of this was new to her, but

she listened dutifully.

"Then there is Herr von Schiller. He has the money and the interest in

the subject, but I do not know him well enough to trust him entirely."

He paused, and Royan had listened to these musings so often before that

she could anticipate him.

"What about the American? He is a famous collector," she forestalled

him.

"Peter Walsh is a difficult man to work with. His passion to accumulate

makes him unscrupulous. He frightens me a little."

"So who does that leave?" she asked.

He did not reply, for they both knew the answer to her question.

Instead, he turned his attention back to the material that littered the

work table.

"It looks so innocent, so mundane. An old papyrus scroll, a few

photographs and notebooks, a computer printout. It is difficult to

believe how dangerous these might be in the wrong hands." He sighed

again. "You might almost say that they are deadly dangerous."

Then he laughed. "I am being fanciful. Perhaps it is the late hour.

Shall we get back to work? We can worry about these other matters once

we have worked out all the conundrums set for us by this old rogue,

Taita, and completed the translation."

He picked up the top photograph from the pile in front of him. It was an

extract from the central section of the scroll. "It is the worst luck

that the damaged piece of papyrus falls where it does." He picked up his

reading glasses and placed them on his nose before he read aloud.

"'There are many steps to ascend on the staircase to the abode of Hapi.

With much hardship and endeavour we reached the second step and

proceeded no further, for it was here that the prince received a divine

revelation. In a dream his father, the dead god pharaoh, visited him and

commanded him, "I have travelled far and I am grown weary. It is here

that I will rest for all eternity."" Duraid removed his glasses and

looked across at Royan, "'The second step". It is a very precise

description for once. Taita is not being his usual devious self."

"Let's go back to the satellite. photographs," Royan suggested, and drew

the glossy sheet towards her. Duraid came around the table to stand

behind her.

"To me it seems most logical that the natural feature that would

obstruct them in the gorge would be something like a set of rapids or a

waterfall. If it were the second waterfall, that would put them here-'

Royan placed her finger on a spot on the satellite photograph where the

narrow snake of the river threaded itself through the dark massifs of

the mountains on either hand.

At that moment she was distracted and she lifted her head. "Listen!" Her

voice changed, sharpening with alarm.

"What is it?" Duraid looked up also.

"The dog," she answered.

"That damn mongrel," he agreed. "It is always making the night hideous

with its yapping. I have promised myself to get rid of him."

At that moment the lights went out.

They froze with surprise in the darkness. The soft thudding of the

decrepit diesel generator in its shed at the back of the palm grove had

ceased. It was so much a part of the oasis night that they noticed it

only when it was silent.

Their eyes adjusted to the faint starlight that came in through the

terrace doors. Duraid crossed the room and took the oil lamp down from

the shelf beside the door where it waited for just such a contingency.

He lit it, and looked across at Royan with an expression of comical

resignation.

"I will have to go down-'

Duraid," she interrupted him, "the dog!'

He listened for a moment, and his expression changed to mild concern.

The dog was silent out there in the night.

"I am sure it is nothing to be alarmed about." He went to the door, and

for no good reason she suddenly called after him.

"Duraid, be careful!" He shrugged dismissively and stepped out on to the

terrace.

She thought for an instant that it was the shadow of the vine over the

trellis moving in the night breeze off the desert, but the night was

still. Then she realized that it was a human figure crossing the

flagstones silently and swiftly, coming in behind Duraid as he skirted

the fishpond in the centre of the paved terrace.

"Duraid!" She screamed a warning and he spun round, lifting the lamp

high.

"Who are you?" he shouted. "What do you want here?" The intruder closed

with him silently. The traditional full-length dishdasha robe swirled

around his legs, and the white ghutrah headcloth covered his head. In

the light of the lamp Duraid saw that he had drawn the corner of the

headcloth over his face to mask his features.

The intruder's back was turned towards her so Royan did not see the

knife in his right hand, but she could not mistake the upward stabbing

motion that he aimed at Duraid's stomach. Duraid grunted with pain and

doubled up at the blow, and his attacker drew the blade free and stabbed

again, but this time Duraid dropped the lamp and seized the knife arm.

The flame of the fallen oil lamp was guttering and flaring. The two men

struggled in the gloom, but Royan saw a dark stain spreading over her

husband's white shirt front.

"Run!" he bellowed at her. "Go! Fetch help! I cannot hold him!" The

Duraid she knew was a gentle person, a soft man of books and learning.

She could see that he was outmatched by his assailant.

"Go! Please! Save yourself, my flower!" She could hear by his tone that

he was weakening, but he still clung desperately to his attacker's knife

arm.

She had been paralysed with shock and indecision these few fatal

seconds, but now she broke free of the spell and ran to the door.

Spurred by her terror and her need to bring help to Duraid she crossed

the terrace, swift as a cat, and he held the intruder from blocking her

way.

She vaulted over the low stone wall into the grove, and almost into the

arms of the second man. She screamed and twisted away from him as his

outstretched fingers raked across her face, and almost broke free, but

his fingers hooked in the thin cotton stuff of her blouse.

This time she saw the knife in his hand, a long silvery flash in the

starlight, and it goaded her to fresh effort. The cotton tore in his

grip and she was free, but not quickly enough to escape the blade. She

felt the sting of it across her upper arm, and she kicked out at him

with all the strength of panic and her hard young body behind it. She

felt her foot slam into the softness of his lower body with a shock that