Facing forward, he led the way across the crowded square to the opening of a street that led, not to the diplomatic quarter, but into a quiet residential area. Halting beneath the awning of a shop that had yet to open, he waited until the three women, Bister, Jimmy, Watson, and Mullins drew near and halted, close enough to hear.

He hadn’t told them where he was taking them. He didn’t want any questions or protests along the way, nothing that might mar the image they were projecting. Don’t look around openly as if you’re searching, he’d told them before they’d walked down the gangplank. The cultists would definitely be in Suez; they needed to avoid waving any flags.

Quietly, he said, “We can’t risk going to the consulate.” He glanced at Emily. “Ferrar has connections in diplomatic circles-he might have asked staff there to alert him or his creatures if any of us pass this way.”

“So where are we going?” Emily peered at him through the lace panel of her burka.

He met her eyes. “To call on an old friend.”

With that, he led them on, into the quieter residential streets.


He knew Cathcart would render whatever aid he could. What Gareth didn’t know was if his old friend’s abilities ran to organizing the sort of transport they needed. But Cathcart had always been a resourceful chap.

The streets they trudged along were narrow, paved in parts, dusty all over. Lined by high stuccoed walls behind which houses large and small lay discreetly concealed, at this hour the streets were easy to navigate, the crowd that would eventually throng them emerging in twos and threes from stout wooden doors set into the walls.

Ten minutes’ stroll from the docks brought them to the green-painted door he remembered. Raising a fist, he thumped.

A minute passed, then the panel shielding a narrow rectangle of ironwork slid aside, and dark eyes looked out.

Gareth met them. “Does Roger Cathcart still live here?”

The middle-aged Arab on the other side of the door nodded. “This is Mr. Cathcart’s residence.”

“Excellent. Please inform Mr. Cathcart that Gar is here, and wishes to consult him on a matter of grave importance.”

The man blinked. After a moment, the panel slid shut.

Less than two minutes later, Gareth heard swift bootsteps approaching the gate from the other side.

He was smiling when the gate was hauled open and Roger Cathcart stood staring at him, pleased surprise and rampant curiosity warring in his face.

“Hamilton? What the devil are you doing here, man?”


Before he could explain, there were the introductions and billeting to be dealt with. Cathcart’s house was large enough to accommodate them all, and his small staff were highly discreet-something Cathcart, understanding the need for secrecy after one glance at their clothes, was careful to give orders to ensure.

After serving as first secretary to the British Consul for more than eight years, Cathcart knew all the ins and outs of Suez, the political and social vicissitudes, and, Gareth was hoping, various ways and means of traveling on to the Mediterranean and beyond.

Cathcart was delighted and intrigued to meet Emily, especially after learning of her connection to the Governor of Bombay, but he reined in his curiosity until Emily, Gareth, and he were seated on soft cushions around a low table, addressing the food displayed on beaten copper and brass platters.

Cathcart waved at the fare. “Consider it a late breakfast, or an early lunch.” He glanced at Emily, busy looking over the offerings, then he blushed lightly. “I say-I must apologize. All these are local dishes-I didn’t think to order more English fare-”

“No, no.” Emily smiled as she helped herself to small grain cakes. “After six months in India, I’ve grown accustomed to spicy food.”

“Oh. Good. Six months? That’s a good long visit.”

“A comfortable visit catching up with my aunt and uncle.” Emily concluded her selections and set down her plate. “Have you been here long?”

While he piled his plate with the freshly cooked delicacies, Gareth listened as Roger answered with a glibly charming, condensed version of his years abroad.

Emily seemed quite cheery and encouraging.

She and Roger kept up a light conversation until, with his plate filled and the pair of them eating, Roger caught Gareth’s eye. “So what ‘matter of grave importance’ brings you to my doorstep?”

When Gareth glanced at the door, Roger added, “They’ve all returned to the kitchens. There’s no one about to hear.”

Gareth nodded, and between mouthfuls of unusually spiced but delicious sustenance, he told Roger the whole tale, from Hastings’s directive to their need for the robes they had arrived on his doorstep in.

Roger was one of the few men in the world in whom he had sufficient confidence to entrust with the unvarnished truth. He’d known Roger since they were both pupils at Winchester Grammar School; neither had ever let the other down. While Gareth had gone into the army, Roger had opted for the diplomatic service, but they’d kept in touch, which was why Gareth had stopped at Suez on his way out to India.

As Gareth had expected, Roger grasped the implications of just who the Black Cobra was immediately.

Frowning, Roger pushed away his empty plate. “You can lie low here, of course-my staff are sound-but you’d be wise to keep your appearances in the streets to a minimum, and as far as possible avoid the area around the consulate.” He met Gareth’s eyes, then glanced at Emily. “I’ve seen a few turbans with unusual black silk bindings recently.”

“Cult members.” Emily’s eyes widened.

Gareth nodded. “I feared they’d be here, ahead of us, keeping watch.”

“That’s what they’re doing, all right. The only place I’ve seen them is in the streets around the consulate.”

“We’ve no reason to go into that area, but”-Gareth trapped Roger’s eyes-“you’ll need to be careful, too. Someone at the consulate might remember our connection from when I was here six years ago.”

Roger pulled a face. “Possible, but unlikely, but I will take care to ensure I’m not followed, not back here, and not to where I suspect I’ll have to go to arrange your transport onward.”

“Speaking of which.” Gareth picked up the last of the flat bread and dipped it into the sauce on his plate. “I don’t think we should go via Cairo.”

“I wasn’t about to suggest it. I imagine if we have some of these cultists here, then Cairo will be swarming with them. Far better if you leave that wasps’ nest alone, and head straight to Alexandria.”

“Is it possible to do that?” When he’d come the other way, he’d traveled from Alexandria up the Nile to Cairo, then part by river, part overland, to Suez.

Roger nodded. “It’s straightforward enough, and”-he glanced at Emily-“given your entourage, it has the added benefit of being the last option anyone would expect you to take.”

Gareth wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that.

“Why not?” Emily asked.

Roger opened his mouth, then paused, as if, faced with Emily’s wide eyes, he, too, was having second thoughts about the preferred option. But when Emily merely waited, expectant and determined, he threw Gareth an apologetic look, and explained, “I think you’ll be safest if you travel with one of the Berber caravans across the desert direct to Alexandria.”

Gareth frowned. “Aren’t they-the Berbers-unreliable?” Warlike. Devious. Not to be trusted.

Roger heard what he left unsaid, and smiled reassuringly. “Some are, but I know a few of the sheiks, and…for want of a better description, they’re honorable. You’ll be safe with one of their tribes, but I’ll need to learn if any of them-those I’d trust-are here at the moment, and when they’ll be leaving for Alexandria.”

“How frequently do they make the trip?” Gareth asked.

“They’re on the move most of the time. The only halts between here and Alexandria are desert oases. But the tribes spend a week or two in camps outside town every time they reach here.” Roger glanced at Emily; it was to her he spoke. “If you think you can manage the privations, it would almost certainly be the safest way.”

Gareth expected her to question what the “privations” were likely to entail, but instead, her neatly rounded chin firmed. She shot him a quick glance, then looked back at Roger. “Is the caravan option the one most likely to result in us reaching Alexandria without encountering the cult?”

Roger hesitated, then nodded. Decisively. He looked at Gareth. “Any other way, and you’re almost certain to find yourself walking into their arms-and given the numbers I’ve seen around here, they’re likely to be a significant force.”

“In that case, we’ll take the caravan option, if you can arrange it.” Emily looked at Gareth, raised her brows.

He hid a blink, and nodded. He was in charge, but if she was prepared to accept whatever difficulties traveling with a caravan entailed, he wasn’t about to quibble over who said what.

“Very well.” Roger looked at a clock on a nearby table. “I have a few documents to get through, and the early afternoon is the best time to catch them anyway.” He looked at Gareth. “I’ll go around there this afternoon, and see who’s in camp, and find out who’s leaving in the next day or two.”

19th October, 1822

Before bed

In my room in Cathcart’s house in Suez

Dear Diary,

Well, at last I can report that I have indeed seen some development in Gareth’s attitude to me, although one can hardly describe it as decisive in any way. Over dinner he turned into a veritable bear, growling and grumpy, and all because his friend Cathcart paid me due attention. Not undue attention, but merely the customary appreciation any sociable and sophisticated gentleman might pay to a lady supping at his table and of a mind to be engaging. At no point did Cathcart step over the line. Gareth, on the other hand, turned positively surly. Not that he made any open fuss, but as he is normally even tempered, his disaffection was apparent to me-and I largely suspect, old friend as he is, to Cathcart as well.

I wonder what he made of it.

Regardless, although he didn’t find those he was seeking today, Cathcart is doing his best for us, and therefore entitled to my smiles.

If Gareth sees no reason to engage my attention, and invite my smiles himself, then he shouldn’t complain if I bestow them-smiles only, mind you-elsewhere.

I am not of a mind to indulge him in his present mood. He can hardly view Cathcart as a rival. It is Gareth I’ve kissed-three times! If he doesn’t act, and commence pursuing me soon, I will have to take more drastic action.

E.

The following afternoon, Gareth found himself wandering the corridors of Cathcart’s house with nothing to do, nothing requiring urgent-or even nonurgent-attention. It had been so long since he’d been at loose ends that he literally felt at a loss.

Earlier he’d gone with Emily and the others to the souk to replenish their supplies. On returning to the house, Roger had joined them for a light luncheon before setting off to scout through the Berber tribes currently encamped outside the city walls.

Once Roger had left, Emily had gone out to the front courtyard with Arnia and Bister, who was taking his new role as Emily’s weapons master very seriously. After watching through a window, seeing Bister reaching around Emily and holding her hand while he demonstrated various thrusts and feints, Gareth had, briefly, regretted not volunteering to teach her himself.

But he wanted her proficient, at least to have some defensive skills, and if he’d been her teacher, he-and maybe even she-would have ended distracted.

His Arab robes swirling about him, he’d wandered off to the other, more contemplative, courtyard, but hadn’t found any subject able to hold his interest, contemplative or otherwise. Dwelling on what his three brothers-in-arms were currently doing wasn’t likely to calm his mind.

Thinking about the Black Cobra’s minions was even less help.

Ambling back through the house, he let his feet carry him toward the main salon. Pausing in the archway leading into the large room, he saw Emily sitting on the largest divan, propped among the sumptuous cushions, her gaze fixed on the window, an abstracted, faraway expression on her face.

His boots had made no sound on the thick runner carpeting the corridor; she didn’t know he was there. He seized the moment to study her-her pure profile, the elegant sweep of her neck, the graceful lines of her arms. The alluring curves of her lithe, very feminine body.