“They’re baldheaded ibis!”

The two had met earlier in the bank. Noting his own volume under the Consul General’s arm, Zamora made the decision then and there to lunch him thoroughly. He blocked his ears to Wavery’s protest that he was expecting an important visitor from London.

“The most dangerous alibi is the respectable one,” he said, exhilarated at the prospect of a good meal. Last night he had typed into. Pablo’s computer a legend preserved by Eudoxos of Knidos concerning the revival of Hercules. Slain by Typhon in Libya, Hercules had been restored to life by smelling a quail.

Zamora looked at Wavery over the rim of his menu and ran his tongue along the skirts of his moustache. He had suffered a good deal from irregularity since Christmas. While he thought he might have found a solution in linseed oil and tarragon he was undeniably hungry.

The club had been founded by Zamora’s great-grandfather, whose portrait hung above the fireplace dressed in a red poncho, white stetson and hidalgo sword and with the words “Ecce fundator” issuing from his mouth on a pale ribbon.

Zamora said, “The Swiss used to eat them.” He had been researching their history at the library. Only two hundred and fifty pairs of baldheaded ibis remained in the world. They bred south of Agadir and in a small town in Turkey where it was considered the spirits lodged in their crop. They led pilgrims to Mecca and represented excellence, glory and virtue to the Egyptians, who mummified them. Noah’s messenger had been an ibis and the moon god Thoth, the inventor of hieroglyphic writing. This might explain their presence as scribes at the judgment of the dead. The birds also acted as mediators between men and beasts. All in all, Zamora couldn’t deny they were creatures of ill omen. “And they’re tremendously ugly.” He looked behind Wavery for a waiter.

Despite the auguries, Senator Zamora ate with relish. “Isn’t this delicious?” he said as he devoured his beef.

A hand squeezed his shoulder and he smelled cigar smoke.

“Consul General. Senator Zamora.” It was Sexto Menendez. Both men stood up. They shook the Governor’s hand.

“Don’t get up,” said Menendez. He attempted to clap both men on the back, saying how much he liked them, what good muchachos they were and how he hoped the Doctor had now forgiven him for that episode with the hat.

Zamora looked down at him icily. Menendez passed his smile to Wavery and winked. “He wants a holy man for a governor,” he said in English.

All this time Menendez was trying to gain purchase on their two shoulders. But the men were too tall, Menendez’ arms too small. “Ring me and we’ll have lunch,” he said finally. He grasped Wavery’s hand and clapped him on the arm.

“Oh, Zamora.” The Governor turned, remembering something. “I need to speak to you about Santa Maria’s clock. We’re going to have to install a new system.” He looked to Wavery for support. After all, it was his Queen also who was coming. “We must impress Her Majesty with our hora inglesa!”