A voice from the not-so-distant past jeered, ‘And if you believe that, you are as innocent as a new-laid egg.’

So maybe I was. I’d rather be innocent (translation: stupid) than vindictive.

He had told me once that he loved me. Only once – and I had badgered him into saying it, at a time when he was too battered and bruised to fight back. I owed him for those bruises, and for a couple of other times when he had risked his precious hide to get me out of a nasty situation. Perhaps he had meant it at the time. Perhaps he had only said it to shut me up.

If I betrayed him now I would stand accused, if only by my own conscience, of revenging myself on a man who had wounded my pride and my vanity. My initial protest to Burckhardt was still valid. Even if I identified John as the thief and swindler half the police of Europe were looking for, they couldn’t arrest him on my word alone. From what I had heard about the Egyptian security forces, they weren’t always too scrupulous about legal formalities, but John was a British subject, protected by the noble code that proclaims a man innocent until proven guilty. I believed in that code, even if it did seem at times to give crooks an unfair advantage.

There was no hurry. The tour wouldn’t return to Cairo for three weeks. If John did mean to have a shot at the museum I’d have to turn him in, there was no question about that. But I could afford to wait a little longer.

I decided to go to bed. A book I had brought along, on the medieval mosques of Cairo, had my eyelids at half-mast before I had read two pages. At that rate, I’d never become an expert on Islamic art in time to lecture on the subject. Cheer up, Vicky, I told myself; you may not have to. Once they put the handcuffs on your ex-lover, you can pull out. With a clear conscience.

III

The horrors of rising at dawn, an activity I try to avoid, were mitigated by the handsome, dark-skinned youth who tapped at my door less than a minute after the chimes had wakened me. I was in no condition to appreciate him, but I certainly appreciated the tray he carried. After two cups of coffee and a cool shower I was ready to face the day.

I made it to the dining room ten minutes before the tour was to leave. Breakfast was buffet-style; there was still plenty of food on the table, but only a few people lingered in the room. One of them was the German urologist, still hunched over his book.

My professional colleagues were gathered in one corner. I deduced that they were waiting for me; as I contemplated the lavish spread, trying to decide what to eat, Feisal rose and joined me.

‘An embarras de richesse, is it not?’ he said, giving me a dazzling smile. ‘I don’t recommend the eggs Benedict; they are a trifle overdone.’