‘Me?’ Bob stared.

‘Yes. I do not want these stones to fall into the hands of my enemies. I do not know when the rising against me will take place. It may be planned for today. I may not live to reach the airstrip this afternoon. Take the stones and do the best you can.’

‘But look here—I don’t understand. What am I to do with them?’

‘Arrange somehow to get them out of the country.’

Ali stared placidly at his perturbed friend.

‘You mean, you want me to carry them instead of you?’

‘You can put it that way. But I think, really, you will be able to think of some better plan to get them to Europe.’

‘But look here, Ali, I haven’t the first idea how to set about such a thing.’

Ali leaned back in his chair. He was smiling in a quietly amused manner.

‘You have common sense. And you are honest. And I remember, from the days when you were my fag, that you could always think up some ingenious idea…I will give you the name and address of a man who deals with such matters for me—that is—in case I should not survive. Do not look so worried, Bob. Do the best you can. That is all I ask. I shall not blame you if you fail. It is as Allah wills. For me, it is simple. I do not want those stones taken from my dead body. For the rest—’ he shrugged his shoulders. ‘It is as I have said. All will go as Allah wills.’

‘You’re nuts!’

‘No. I am a fatalist, that is all.’

‘But look here, Ali. You said just now I was honest. But three quarters of a million…Don’t you think that might sap any man’s honesty?’

Ali Yusuf looked at his friend with affection.

‘Strangely enough,’ he said, ‘I have no doubt on that score.’

Chapter 2

The Woman on the Balcony

As Bob Rawlinson walked along the echoing marble corridors of the Palace, he had never felt so unhappy in his life. The knowledge that he was carrying three quarters of a million pounds in his trousers pocket caused him acute misery. He felt as though every Palace official he encountered must know the fact. He felt even that the knowledge of his precious burden must show in his face. He would have been relieved to learn that his freckled countenance bore exactly its usual expression of cheerful good nature.

The sentries outside presented arms with a clash. Bob walked down the main crowded street of Ramat, his mind still dazed. Where was he going? What was he planning to do? He had no idea. And time was short.

The main street was like most main streets in the Middle East. It was a mixture of squalor and magnificence. Banks reared their vast newly built magnificence. Innumerable small shops presented a collection of cheap plastic goods. Babies’ bootees and cheap cigarette lighters were displayed in unlikely juxtaposition. There were sewing machines, and spare parts for cars. Pharmacies displayed flyblown proprietary medicines, and large notices of penicillin in every form and antibiotics galore. In very few of the shops was there anything that you could normally want to buy, except possibly the latest Swiss watches, hundreds of which were displayed crowded into a tiny window. The assortment was so great that even there one would have shrunk from purchase, dazzled by sheer mass.