Crossing Cairo streets is a death-defying procedure. The street on the west side of Ezbekiya Gardens is a wide, very busy thoroughfare, and I lost sight of Feisal for a few seconds while I tried to avoid being run down by taxis, buses, and trucks. Reaching the other side breathless but intact, I caught sight of him standing by a little kiosk. The gardens were large; they must have arranged to meet at that precise spot. Hanging back, per instructions, I saw a tall grey-haired man approach Feisal. He was wearing Western clothes, and even at that distance I noted the resemblance. They stood talking for a while; then the older man threw his arms around Feisal.

Any father might embrace a returning prodigal son, and Middle Eastern males have no hang-ups about expressing affection physically. Not until I saw the crowds disperse, like hens when a fox enters the chicken yard, did I realize what was happening. Feisal saw the foxes too. They were hard to miss – four of them, carrying automatic weapons. He twisted away from the arms that tried to hold him, and gave his father a shove that sent him staggering back.

‘Run,’ he yelled. ‘Run, Vicky!’

He wasn’t trying to escape. He was just trying to warn me. He was standing perfectly still when they cut him down. I heard the rattle of weapons, and I heard him cry out, and saw him fall. Another, shriller, cry echoed his. It came, I thought, from Feisal’s father.

People were screaming and running and I ran with them, blindly. My throat ached with rage and horror and grief. What sort of man would turn in his own son? I hoped it had been the old man who had cried out. I hoped he was suffering. Maybe he hadn’t expected they would fire without so much as a preliminary warning. But he ought to have known, he ought to have trusted his son, given him a chance to explain . . .

I threw myself in front of a taxi, pried myself off the front fender and wrenched the door open. ‘The American Embassy,’ I gasped. ‘Shari Latin America.’

I’m as patriotic as the next guy, but the sight of the flag had never affected me as it had that day. The farther you are from home the better that star-spangled banner looks. I marched up to the door with my chin held high and demanded entry.

It’s nice to be famous. As soon as I mentioned my name I was passed from flunky to flunky till I ended up in an office few tourists see. There was a flag there too, and behind the big mahogany desk hung a picture of the President. I had voted for him and I had always thought he had a nice friendly smile. It had never looked friendlier.