It was a good opening, and Ramses took advantage of it. His questions and comments brought out a spate of information, much of it highly inaccurate, and some more accurate descriptions of various public figures. Von Kressenstein, the German commander, was feared but respected; the governor was feared and loathed; the Turkish general was a fat pig who did nothing but sit in his fine house and eat. And so it went, until dusk grayed the sky and the party dispersed.

Ramses and Chetwode spent the night in the picturesque ruins of what was locally known as Samson’s tomb – actually a structure dating from the Middle Ages. Moonlight filtering through the broken walls and roof made baroque patterns on the ground, and the leaves of the ancient olive trees rustled in the night wind. As they ate the food purchased in the bazaar, Chetwode enlivened the meal with questions. He hadn’t had a chance to talk all day, and it must be wearing on him.

“You didn’t ask about Ismail Pasha,” he said accusingly.

“One tries to avoid asking direct questions.” Ramses tossed away a handful of orange peel and stretched out on the ground. “In this case it wasn’t necessary. You were there; didn’t you hear what they said about him?”

“Everybody was talking too fast,” Chetwode said sullenly. “Anyhow, it’s your job to locate the fellow.”

The hero worship was wearing thin. Ramses couldn’t have said why he was reluctant to share this bit of news; old habit, perhaps, or one of the Secret Service’s basic rules: Don’t tell anyone more than he needs to know. Maybe Chetwode did need to know this, if only to keep him from doing something impulsive.

“The holy infidel, as they call him, is going to pray at the mosque of Hashim tomorrow at midday,” Ramses explained. “There will be quite a crowd, I expect. We’ll go early and find a place where we can get a good long look at him.”

“And then?”

“Then we make a quick and, let us hope, unobtrusive exit from Gaza.”

“After only two days? Without – without doing anything?”

Ramses tried to hold on to his temper. Being responsible for this ingenuous youth was nerve-racking enough without having to deliver lectures on espionage. “You hadn’t planned on an indefinite stay, had you? We have to assume that there are certain people here who keep tabs on newcomers. One of our amiable acquaintances at the coffeeshop could be an agent of the governor or the military.”

“Really?”

“That’s how the Turks operate. They don’t trust anyone, and with good reason. They aren’t well liked in these parts. Sooner or later our presence will be known, and some bright soul may decide it would be a good idea to question us. Then there are the press gangs. They’re always looking for recruits. One more day is all we can risk.” He yawned and wondered why he was bothering. “Get some rest.”

“As soon as I finish this.”

Ramses sat up with a start. Chetwode squatted by the ruined arch of the entrance, scribbling busily by moonlight on what appeared to be a folded piece of paper. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Making notes. I didn’t recognize all the insignia of the men we saw, but if I describe them, our people can get a good idea which units -”

“Eat it.”

“What?”

“Get rid of the goddamn paper!” Chetwode stared blankly at him. He got to his feet. “If you were caught and they found that on you, you’d be dead. Or wish you were. What other incriminating objects are you carrying?”

He snatched the paper from Chetwode. Hastily, eyes wide, the boy took a pouch from the breast of his robe. It contained sheets of paper, several pencils, a small pocket torch, and a tiny bottle containing two white pills.

“Christ, I should have searched you before we left,” Ramses muttered, as he shredded the papers and stamped on the neatly sharpened pencils. “What’s in the bottle? Cyanide, no doubt. The Secret Service loves cyanide.”

“But if we’re caught -”

“We had better be able to talk our way out of it, which we could not do if we were carrying British-made writing materials. As for these…” He ground the innocent-looking pills under his heel. “Were you planning to ask the governor’s head torturer to hang on a minute while you fished round in your pouch for the bottle, opened it, and popped the pills into your mouth?”

Chetwode’s head drooped. “It does sound ridiculous, when you put it that way. They told me -”

“Yes, all right. Look here, there are a number of ways we could have gone about this, including your uncle’s idiotic suggestion that we wear captured Turkish uniforms and march into their headquarters demanding information.”

“I don’t see why -”

“Then I’ll tell you why.” Ramses lost the remains of his temper. “It’s a miracle you haven’t already been spotted. If I were picked up and questioned, they would probably do nothing worse than send me to the trenches, from which I would soon remove myself. If they caught you, it wouldn’t take a trained officer more than ten seconds to identify you as an Englishman. It’s not just your accent, it’s the way you stand, and sit, and move and… everything about you!”

Chetwode bowed his head. “I didn’t know I was that bad.”

“All of you are. It’s not your fault,” he added, more kindly. “To pass convincingly as a native of the area, you have to live there and think in the language for years. This is the safest way, and I’m trying to minimize the risks. You’ve done fine so far, but you’ll have to follow my orders and keep your notes in your head.”

“Like you? All that” – he gestured at the scattered bits of paper – “was a waste of time, wasn’t it? You’ve got it memorized.”

He was back to the hero worship. It was almost worse than his brief attempts at independent thinking. But not as dangerous. Ramses shrugged. “It’s a matter of practice.”

“A little late for me to start now, I guess.” He looked up with a rueful smile. “Sorry. I’ll do everything you say from now on.”

“Then get some sleep.”

Chetwode couldn’t keep quiet even when he slept. He snored. Lying awake, his hands under his head, Ramses was tempted to kick him, but his better nature prevailed. Let the fellow sleep. He wished he could. The night noises here weren’t the same as the ones at home; his nerves twitched at every rustle in the weeds. Since sleep was impossible, he went over and over the conversations he had held that day, picking them apart, looking for hints he might have missed.

He got a little sleep, but not much, what with Chetwode’s snores and the need to listen for suspicious sounds. At daybreak he roused his companion. Chetwode was uncharacteristically silent – sulking or brooding, or maybe fighting an attack of cold feet, for which Ramses wouldn’t have blamed him.

Suddenly Chetwode said, “What if something goes wrong?”

“I told you. Run.”

“That’s not much of a plan,” Chetwode said. His mouth twitched. Perhaps he was trying to smile.

Ramses came to a decision. One of the many worries that had prevented him from sleeping was the thought of his anxious family, waiting in Khan Yunus.

“If you make it out and I’m caught or killed,” he said, “go to the house of Ibn Rafid in Khan Yunus. It’s on the main square, the largest house in town – anyone can show you which it is. Leave a written message for…” He realized he didn’t know the name Emerson was currently using. “For the present master of the house, telling him what happened to me.”

“Is he one of us?” Chetwode asked.

“No.” The boy’s curiosity made him wonder if he’d done the right thing. The alternative would have been worse, though – leaving them in ignorance of his fate, possibly for days. They might even decide to invade Gaza looking for him. None of them was noted for patience; and if the worst happened, certain knowledge was better than false hope.

Chetwode asked no further questions.

After they had finished the bread and fruit left over from the previous night, Ramses led the other man on a circuitous route back toward the center of town. The mosque was near the Askalon Gate. Ramses found a coffeeshop – not the one they had visited the previous day – and they settled down to wait.