With an effort, Ramses kept his breathing shallow and slow. Hamilton was quick to reply.

“It was David Todros.”

“Who? Impossible. He’s in—”

“He’s not. I got a good look at him. Now think, if the effort isn’t too much for you. If Todros is here it’s because the British sent him here. He looks enough like your cousin to pass for him. They’ve pulled that stunt before. Why would they do it now, and why was it imperative that Todros’s presence here shouldn’t be known? And what about those rumors about the man in India ?”

There was no reply from Percy. “For God’s sake,” Hamilton said impatiently. “Isn’t it obvious? You told that miserable young thug we planted on Wardani to get rid of him. That was not a bad idea; I never trusted Wardani either, and if we had made a martyr of him his people would be raging for revenge against the British.”

“That was part of the plan. It would have worked, too, if Farouk hadn’t been such a rotten shot. He only wounded the fellow.”

“How badly?”

“Well… Bad enough, I suppose, to judge from Farouk’s lurid description. He wasn’t seen for three days.”

“Where was he during that time? Where was he the rest of the time? You knew where all the others lived, but you never found Wardani’s hideouts, did you? Neither did the police, and God knows they looked hard enough.”

“Damn it, don’t patronize me!” Percy shouted. “I see what you’re getting at, but you’re wrong. Yes, I heard the rumors, and yes, I knew there was only one man who could have taken Wardani’s place. It wasn’t Ramses. I sent Fortescue to Giza to see if he was… If he… Oh, my God.”

“Has the penny dropped at last? I wouldn’t count on your little revolution coming off tonight. Ten to one those weapons are already in the hands of the police.”

Percy let out a string of obscenities. The toe of his boot caught Ramses in the ribs and rolled him onto his back. “Get him up,” Percy snapped. “On his feet.”

Two of the hands that hauled him upright belonged to the Turk. The man who gripped his other arm wore the long white woolen haik wound round his body and over his head. The Senussi were religious reformers but not ascetics; this fellow’s caftan was of yellow silk trimmed with red braid, and his under-vest glittered with gold. Percy’s tone had been that of master to servant, the same tone he used to all non-Europeans, and although the two men had complied with his order, their scowling faces showed their resentment.

Leaning negligently against the back of one of the chairs, a glass in his hand, Hamilton met Ramses’s curious gaze with smiling affability. He had abandoned his kilt that evening in favor of ordinary civilian clothes and boots, but that wasn’t the only difference in his appearance. The face was that of another man, harder and more alert.

“How much did you hear?” Percy demanded.

“Quite a lot,” Ramses said apologetically. “I know eavesdropping is rude, but—”

Percy cut him off with a hard, open-handed slap across the mouth. “Was it you? It wasn’t, was it? It couldn’t have been!”

He grabbed Ramses by the front of his shirt. Ramses stared back at him. He was not unwilling to prolong the discussion, but he couldn’t think of a response. It was such a simple-minded question. What did Percy expect him to say? Why didn’t he look for the unmistakable evidence that would verify Hamilton ’s theory?

Ramses knew the answer. Percy couldn’t admit the possibility that he had been outwitted, that all his brilliant plans had collapsed into ruin. He’d deny the truth until someone rubbed his nose in it.

Percy raised his hand for another slap, but before he could deliver it Hamilton came up behind him and knocked his arm down, and it was Hamilton who opened Ramses’s shirt and pulled it off his shoulders.

“Is that proof enough for you?” he asked sardonically.

The Turk let out a muffled exclamation. Ramses wondered idly how detailed Farouk’s description had been. Not that it mattered. The scars were there, some of them still healing.

Percy’s cheeks turned crimson and his lips puckered into a pout like that of a spoiled child. Because Ramses had half-expected it, he was able to keep from crying out when Percy’s fist drove into his shoulder. After the dizziness had passed, he discovered he was still more or less upright. A furious argument was in progress. The Turk was doing most of the shouting.

“Stay, then, fool, and wait for the police. Do you suppose he came here without their knowledge? We have lost this skirmish. It is time to retreat and regroup.”

Percy began gabbling. “No. No, you can’t go. I need you to help me deal with him.”

Ramses raised his head and met the cool, appraising eyes of Hamilton .

“Our Turkish friend has it right,” he said. “We mustn’t waste any more time. There’s no need to question him when the answers are obvious. Tie his feet and arms and let’s get out of here.”

Percy’s jaw dropped. “Leave him alive? Are you mad? He knows who I am!”

“Kill him, then,” the Turk said. “Unless the blood tie holds your hand. Shall I cut his throat for you?”

“Don’t trouble yourself on my account,” Ramses said. He was pleased to find that his voice was steady.

The Turk laughed appreciatively. “It was well played, young one. I regret we will not match wits again.”

Keep talking, Ramses thought. Keep them arguing and debating and delaying. It wouldn’t delay the Turk for long, he was an old hand at this. There was still a chance, though, so long as David was alive—and he must be—the alternative was unthinkable. Ironically, his only hope of surviving for more than sixty seconds depended on Percy.

“Oh, no,” Percy said. “I’ve looked forward to killing him for years. I’m looking forward to it even more now. Take him downstairs.”

“Take him yourself. You don’t give orders to me.” The Turk released his grip, and Ramses sagged to his knees. Good old Percy, he thought insanely. Always predictable.

“Go then, damn you,” Percy shouted. “Both of you. All of you. I can handle him by myself.”

“I doubt that,” the Turk said with a sneer. “So. Rather than take the chance, I will make certain he is securely bound and helpless before I go. That is how you want him, isn’t it?”

The contempt in his voice didn’t even touch Percy. “Yes,” he said eagerly. “Good. You needn’t bother to carry him, just—”

“He will walk to his death,” the Turk said flatly. “As a man should. Help him up, Sayyid Ahmad.”

Ramses appreciated the implied compliment, but as they pulled him to his feet he wished the Turk’s notions of honor were not so painful. Swaying in the grasp of his captors, he said, “I wouldn’t at all object to being carried. This sort of thing is somewhat tiring.”

The Turk let out a bark of laughter. Percy reddened. “You wouldn’t be so cocky if you knew what’s in store for you.”

“I have a fairly good idea. Whatever would Lord Edward say? ‘Torture’s caddish, you know.’ ”

So they had to carry him after all. Percy got in two hard blows across the face before the Turk’s blistering comments stopped him. Ramses was only vaguely aware of being lifted by his feet and shoulders and, after a time, of being lowered onto a hard surface. When they cut the ropes that bound his hands he reacted automatically, striking out with feet and knees and the stiffened muscles of his arms. It gained him a few precious seconds, but there were four of them and it didn’t take them long to put him out.

There was water dripping off his chin when he came to his senses. He passed his dry tongue over the traces of moisture on his lips and tried to focus his eyes. He was where he had expected to be, in the foul little room in the cellar, stripped to the waist, his hands tied to a hook high on the wall. The lantern was burning brightly. Naturally. Percy would want to see what he was doing.

His cousin put the water jug on the table, caught hold of Ramses’s jaw, and twisted his head painfully around so their faces were only inches apart. “How did you find out about this place?” he demanded hoarsely.