As it turned out, very few incidents of that sort occurred. (I had never seen a camel move sideways until Daoud made certain it did.)

Once we were established at Shepheard’s, we set off for the old market. It had been some time since I had visited the Khan el-Khalili. It was delightful to be there again, traversing the winding pathways under passages through whose latticed roofs rays of sunlight stretched like dusty fingers. The shopkeepers squatted on whitewashed mastaba benches outside their shops; one old acquaintance recognized me and called out, “Sitt Hakim! I have new, beautiful cloth from Damascus, woven with gold. For you, a special price!”

Which would involve my paying the usual price, after an hour of coffee drinking and pleasurable haggling. “Not today, Fahim,” I called back. “Another time, perhaps.”

Harun has been acknowledged as the finest forger in Cairo. We had long suspected that many of his fakes were displayed in museums throughout Europe and the United States, while the originals were held by wealthy collectors of ancient Egyptian art.

His establishment was just around the corner from the Street of the Metalworkers. One of the loungers on the mastaba bench outside the shop rose and offered me his seat (and a cupped hand ready to receive baksheesh). I shook my head, and Emerson and I went into the shop, leaving the rest of our entourage outside in order not to terrify Harun into a heart attack.

There was no one in the small front room, which contained only a chair, a desk, and a few shelves displaying oddments of pottery. From behind a door at the back came low voices and clinking sounds. When I tried the door I found it locked—an occurrence so unusual that I stood staring at it for several seconds before announcing my presence.

The door opened just wide enough for one of Harun’s eyes to appear. “Oh, it is you, Sitt!” he said in a poor pretense of surprise. “And Father of Curses. Ahlan-wa-salan! Welcome to my humble shop.”

I put my hand on the hilt of my parasol. “Are you coming out, or shall we go in?”

It is amazing how expressive a single optic can be to one who has learned to read such signals. His obvious reluctance to admit us only made me more determined to proceed. The sight of Emerson looming behind me may have contributed to his rapid retreat from the door. Or the sight of Ramses and David, who had followed us and were looming as well. I pushed open the door.

Two of Harun’s apprentices were seated at a table on whose surface rested blocks of limestone, about twenty inches tall and roughly shaped into what would eventually be a human head wearing a tall crown. As we entered, they leapt to their feet and fled through the back door.