nothing that might mar the image they were projecting. Don’t look around openly as if you’re searching, he’d told them before they’d walked down the gangplank. The cultists would definitely be in Suez; they needed to avoid waving any flags.
Quietly, he said, “We can’t risk going to the consulate.” He glanced at Emily. “Ferrar has connections in diplomatic circles—he might have asked staff there to alert him or his creatures if any of us pass this way.”
“So where are we going?” Emily peered at him through the lace panel of her burka.
He met her eyes. “To call on an old friend.”
With that, he led them on, into the quieter residential streets.
He knew Cathcart would render whatever aid he could. What Gareth didn’t know was if his old friend’s abilities ran to organizing the sort of transport they needed. But Cathcart had always been a resourceful chap.
The streets they trudged along were narrow, paved in parts, dusty all over. Lined by high stuccoed walls behind which houses large and small lay discreetly concealed, at this hour the streets were easy to navigate, the crowd that would eventually throng them emerging in twos and threes from stout wooden doors set into the walls.
Ten minutes’ stroll from the docks brought them to the green-painted door he remembered. Raising a fist, he thumped.
A minute passed, then the panel shielding a narrow rectangle of ironwork slid aside, and dark eyes looked out.
Gareth met them. “Does Roger Cathcart still live here?”
The middle-aged Arab on the other side of the door nodded. “This is Mr. Cathcart’s residence.”
“Excellent. Please inform Mr. Cathcart that Gar is here, and wishes to consult him on a matter of grave importance.”
The man blinked. After a moment, the panel slid shut.
Less than two minutes later, Gareth heard swift bootsteps approaching the gate from the other side.
He was smiling when the gate was hauled open and Roger Cathcart stood staring at him, pleased surprise and rampant curiosity warring in his face.
“Hamilton? What the devil are you doing here, man?”
Before he could explain, there were the introductions and billeting to be dealt with. Cathcart’s house was large enough to accommodate them all, and his small staff were highly discreet—something Cathcart, understanding the need for secrecy after one glance at their clothes, was careful to give orders to ensure.
After serving as first secretary to the British Consul for more than eight years, Cathcart knew all the ins and outs of Suez, the political and social vicissitudes, and, Gareth was hoping, various ways and means of traveling on to the Mediterranean and beyond.
Cathcart was delighted and intrigued to meet Emily, especially after learning of her connection to the Governor of Bombay, but he reined in his curiosity until Emily, Gareth, and he were seated on soft cushions around a low table, addressing the food displayed on beaten copper and brass platters.
Cathcart waved at the fare. “Consider it a late breakfast, or an early lunch.” He glanced at Emily, busy looking over the offerings, then he blushed lightly. “I say—I must apologize. All these are local dishes—I didn’t think to order more English fare—”
“No, no.” Emily smiled as she helped herself to small grain cakes. “After six months in India, I’ve grown accustomed to spicy food.”
“Oh. Good. Six months? That’s a good long visit.”
“A comfortable visit catching up with my aunt and uncle.” Emily concluded her selections and set down her plate. “Have you been here long?”
While he piled his plate with the freshly cooked delicacies, Gareth listened as Roger answered with a glibly charming, condensed version of his years abroad.
Emily seemed quite cheery and encouraging.
She and Roger kept up a light conversation until, with his plate filled and the pair of them eating, Roger caught Gareth’s eye. “So what ‘matter of grave importance’
Quietly, he said, “We can’t risk going to the consulate.” He glanced at Emily. “Ferrar has connections in diplomatic circles—he might have asked staff there to alert him or his creatures if any of us pass this way.”
“So where are we going?” Emily peered at him through the lace panel of her burka.
He met her eyes. “To call on an old friend.”
With that, he led them on, into the quieter residential streets.
He knew Cathcart would render whatever aid he could. What Gareth didn’t know was if his old friend’s abilities ran to organizing the sort of transport they needed. But Cathcart had always been a resourceful chap.
The streets they trudged along were narrow, paved in parts, dusty all over. Lined by high stuccoed walls behind which houses large and small lay discreetly concealed, at this hour the streets were easy to navigate, the crowd that would eventually throng them emerging in twos and threes from stout wooden doors set into the walls.
Ten minutes’ stroll from the docks brought them to the green-painted door he remembered. Raising a fist, he thumped.
A minute passed, then the panel shielding a narrow rectangle of ironwork slid aside, and dark eyes looked out.
Gareth met them. “Does Roger Cathcart still live here?”
The middle-aged Arab on the other side of the door nodded. “This is Mr. Cathcart’s residence.”
“Excellent. Please inform Mr. Cathcart that Gar is here, and wishes to consult him on a matter of grave importance.”
The man blinked. After a moment, the panel slid shut.
Less than two minutes later, Gareth heard swift bootsteps approaching the gate from the other side.
He was smiling when the gate was hauled open and Roger Cathcart stood staring at him, pleased surprise and rampant curiosity warring in his face.
“Hamilton? What the devil are you doing here, man?”
Before he could explain, there were the introductions and billeting to be dealt with. Cathcart’s house was large enough to accommodate them all, and his small staff were highly discreet—something Cathcart, understanding the need for secrecy after one glance at their clothes, was careful to give orders to ensure.
After serving as first secretary to the British Consul for more than eight years, Cathcart knew all the ins and outs of Suez, the political and social vicissitudes, and, Gareth was hoping, various ways and means of traveling on to the Mediterranean and beyond.
Cathcart was delighted and intrigued to meet Emily, especially after learning of her connection to the Governor of Bombay, but he reined in his curiosity until Emily, Gareth, and he were seated on soft cushions around a low table, addressing the food displayed on beaten copper and brass platters.
Cathcart waved at the fare. “Consider it a late breakfast, or an early lunch.” He glanced at Emily, busy looking over the offerings, then he blushed lightly. “I say—I must apologize. All these are local dishes—I didn’t think to order more English fare—”
“No, no.” Emily smiled as she helped herself to small grain cakes. “After six months in India, I’ve grown accustomed to spicy food.”
“Oh. Good. Six months? That’s a good long visit.”
“A comfortable visit catching up with my aunt and uncle.” Emily concluded her selections and set down her plate. “Have you been here long?”
While he piled his plate with the freshly cooked delicacies, Gareth listened as Roger answered with a glibly charming, condensed version of his years abroad.
Emily seemed quite cheery and encouraging.
She and Roger kept up a light conversation until, with his plate filled and the pair of them eating, Roger caught Gareth’s eye. “So what ‘matter of grave importance’
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