Mysteries, surmised Clelia Kingslake, signing the bill. She followed. Grilli was bowed over a little cricket of a man, while a military figure strode about the lobby roaring orders in English. When Miss Kingslake came up, Grilli introduced her.

“Mysteries, this is Miss Kingslake, the newest member of the mission.”

Rees shook hands. He looked Miss Kingslake in the eyes and held her gaze. “Miss Kingsley,” he said quietly, “I want you to know that people like you are continually in our minds at Headquarters. Sometimes staff members in the field tend to feel forgotten. Believe me, they couldn’t be more mistaken. I want you to know that it’s fully appreciated, the wonderful work you are doing here.”

“Thank you.”

“Believe me.”

The three men were to dine together. Miss Kingslake was grateful that no suggestion was made that she should join them. While Grilli accompanied Rees up to his room, the Captain came over to Miss Kingslake, cap in hand, and introduced himself.

The Captain was also a fleshy man, though short. His face was red and puffy. He wore heavy dark glasses with square dark frames. The regularity of his black moustache suggested an inept disguise—another case of bad camouflage.

“We’re sharing an office, I think?” said Clelia Kingslake, when they had exchanged names.

“So that’s his idea, is it?” The Captain shot her a necessarily dark look. “More room in his office than in mine. What-have-you and so on. Could have requisitioned another office from the locals.”

Miss Kingslake said, with a helpful air of making light of things that was one of her more difficult characteristics, “Oh well—it’s an emergency mission.”

The Captain slapped his cap against his leg with annoyance. “Emergency, bah. I’ve been in the Eastern Mediterranean five years. Seen nothing but a lot of so-called emergencies. Let them kill one another—best thing that could happen, what-have-you and so on. Or drop an atomic bomb on the lot of them.”

Miss Kingslake stared. “The Organization—”

“Organization!” The red face inflated with facile rage. “A lot of clots, that’s what they are, this Organization of yours. A lot of clots.”

Miss Kingslake turned away. The Captain followed her to the elevator. “And the Arabs. Don’t talk to me about the Arabs.”

She made no attempt to. The elevator arrived.

“Vehicle at O seven hundred hours sharp. What-have-you and so on.”

Just before seven Clelia Kingslake came down to the hotel lobby. A second sleep, a bath, and a new day had made a difference to her spirits. Waking in the dark that morning she had thought the situation over. Was it not true, after all, that she—through no fault of her own—had come belatedly to a mission where others had been under strain? That she had encountered them, yesterday evening, at the end of a fatiguing day spent in the faithful performance of their duties? Miss Kingslake’s heart brimmed with understanding as she climbed into her claw-footed bathtub.