Ramses didn’t even think of trying to make a break for it. Nor would bluster serve him here. He took the seat indicated and waited for the other man to speak first.

Mansur clapped his hands. A servant entered through a curtained doorway, carrying a tray which he put on the table. He was neatly dressed in a brightly embroidered vest over a brown galabeeyah, with red slippers on his feet. He gave Ramses a quick sidelong glance before salaaming profoundly to Mansur and backing out of the room.

“Would you care for tea?” Mansur asked, indicating the glasses on the tray.

It was the first time Ramses had heard him utter more than a muttered word or two. His voice was low and melodious, a deep baritone. Even more surprising was the fact that he spoke educated English, with only the faint trace of an accent.

“Oxford?” Ramses inquired, taking one of the glasses.

“Cambridge.”

“And before that?”

Mansur’s eyes narrowed, and Ramses explained disingenuously, “What I meant to say was that your English is excellent.”

“How kind of you to say so.”

“To speak a language so well, most people require years of study, starting at an early age.”

Mansur took a seat beside Ramses and helped himself to tea.

“We can go on fencing, if you like, but it would save time if we went straight to the point. What do you want to know?”

Ramses raised his eyebrows. “You want me to ask you questions? I expected it would be the other way round.”

The other man’s thin lips curved in a smile. With the turban low on his brow and his beard hiding the outline of chin and jaw, and those deep-set, hooded eyes, his face was to all intents and purposes masked, no feature that might have expressed his feelings exposed. “Still fencing. I don’t have to question you. Last night you met a man who was a British spy. He told you a number of things he was not supposed to know. Please don’t bother to equivocate. I let him leave the area so that I could follow him.”

“You couldn’t have overheard what he said to me,” Ramses said.

“I heard enough. He had only suspicions, no proof, but if those suspicions were passed on, an investigation might interfere with our work.”

“So you killed him. Was it you who cut his throat?”

“Why should you think that? These vagabonds one hires are a quarrelsome lot.”

And by the time someone went looking for the grave, the body would no longer be there.

Mansur finished his tea and put the glass onto the tray. “In any case,” he continued, “his disappearance won’t be discovered for some time. By then we will have finished our work and be…elsewhere.”

“And how do you propose to prevent me from reporting his death? If you kill me-”

“My dear chap!” Another fleeting, sardonic smile. “I wouldn’t do anything so foolish, even if my civilized instincts did not forbid it. Your disappearance would be known immediately, and your devoted family would move heaven and earth to find out what had become of you. I spent some time in Egypt and I know your father’s reputation-and that of your mother. They would learn that you had had encounters with our group, and that we don’t want. No, my young friend, you will have to accept our hospitality for a brief period.”

Ramses sipped his tea. His mouth was dry, but he was beginning to entertain a faint, cowardly hope that he might survive a little longer. He didn’t believe in Mansur’s “civilized instincts,” but his reasoning made sense. There was one large flaw in his plans, though. Ramses debated with himself as to whether he should point it out.

He might have known his wily adversary had anticipated that too. “The same problem will arise if you don’t turn up in Jaffa at the appointed time. Oh, yes, we know all about that. We have allies in the village. They listen to your conversations, they read your letters. Therefore you must write to your parents and make some excuse for not meeting them. We will see it is delivered.”

“What excuse? I can’t think of one they would accept.”

“A secret mission?” Mansur suggested, eyebrows elevated. “You have a reputation, I believe, for independent action. The less specific your excuse, the better. Perhaps the best thing would be for you to say something like, ‘Have been delayed. Will explain when I see you. Go on to Jerusalem.’”

So even the contents of his parents’ letters were known. How many villagers could read English that well? Maybe the letters had been “borrowed” and shown to Mansur or Madame. Their temporary absence might not have been noticed.

“They won’t buy that,” Ramses said, knowing that they probably would. For some reason his parents had a low opinion of his common sense.

“Are you trying to persuade me to kill you?” Mansur inquired. “I won’t do that, for the reasons I have explained. But I can make life very unpleasant for you while you are in my custody if you refuse to cooperate.”

“Civilized men don’t torture prisoners,” Ramses pointed out.

“I don’t believe in torture. It is ineffective. A man in pain will say whatever he believes his questioner wants to hear. Come now, be sensible.” He leaned forward, his deep-set eyes intent. “As I said, you have no proof of wrongdoing on our part. Our mission is secret, but it poses no threat to anyone. In fact, if our plans succeed, many people will be helped. One day soon I will be able to tell you about it and it may well be that you will find yourself in sympathy with our aims.”

“Then why not tell me now?”

“I have taken a vow of silence.”

Can’t argue with that, Ramses thought. Nor with any of the other vague hints Mansur had dropped. He remained silent, and Mansur went on, “You will not be harmed and you will have the usual comforts. And-” This time the smile was broader. “Who knows, you may find a means of escape.”

“There is that,” Ramses agreed. Against all his inclinations he was inclined to believe the other man’s assurance that he would not be harmed. Anyhow, what choice had he? Assuming he could overpower Mansur and three men carrying rifles, which was not so much unlikely as impossible, where would he go?

“I’ll write the letter,” he said. “Have you paper and pen?”

“No. But I expect you have, in your luggage if not on your person. Shall I have your suitcases brought in?”

“No need.” Ramses reached in his pocket, where he carried a small notepad and pen. He’d never got over the habit of cramming his pockets with various objects picked up during his daily activities. After removing a fragment of stone with a carved leaf-which he had forgotten to leave at the dig-a handful of figs, a coiled length of string, and the clay fragment he had found, he located the notepad. When he took it out, something else came with it-a crumpled piece of white linen.

“You may as well return this to Frau von Eine,” he said, handing it over. “She dropped it the other day. Or will I have the opportunity to do so myself?”

Mansur stared at the motley objects on the table. After a moment Ramses rephrased his question. “Will I be encountering Frau von Eine in the near future?”

“I cannot say.”

“You mean you will not say, or that her future activities are not known to you?”

“Write,” Mansur said. He picked up the handkerchief and slipped it into the breast of his robe.

Ramses wrote as Mansur dictated, almost word for word, the same message he had suggested earlier, tore the page from the notepad, and handed it over.

“Now what?” he asked.

“You accompany us to…where we are going.”

“What about Abdul Hamid?”

“Who? Oh, your driver. He will return to Sebaste tomorrow, having left you, at your request, with a group of pilgrims whom you encountered in Nablus and who were planning to travel to Jaffa next day.”

“That should muddy the trail nicely,” Ramses said with grudging admiration. “I presume Abdul Hamid will be well bribed.”