when he moved slightly he could see walls. There was no red anywhere, no rich colors of wool, only striped ochre and black and unbleached linen in a heap.
He sat up slowly, a little dizzy. The heat was motionless, suffocating. There were flies everywhere. He swatted at them uselessly. He was in a small room, and the heap of cloth was another man. There was a third propped up against the farthest wall, and a fourth under the high, barred window, beyond which was a square of burning blue sky.
He looked at the men again. One was bearded and wore a turban; he had a dark, heavy, swollen bruise around his left eye. It looked painful. A second was clean-shaven except for a long, black mustache. Pitt guessed him to be Greek or Armenian. The third smiled at him, shaking his head and pursing his lips. He held out a leather water bottle, offering it to Pitt.
“Thank you,” Pitt accepted. His mouth was dry and his throat ached. An Arab or Turk, a Greek or Armenian, a Jew, and himself, an Englishman. What was he doing here, in what was apparently a prison? He turned around slowly, looking for the door. There was no handle on the inside.
“Where are we?” he said, taking another sip of the water. He should not drink too much, it might be all they had. He passed it back.
“English,” the Jew said with bewildered amusement. “What are you doing fighting the English police in a riot? You’re not one of us!”
They were all looking at him curiously.
Slowly, he realized that his blundering fall must have looked like a deliberate assault. He had been arrested as part of the demonstration of feeling against the British authority in Egypt. He had sensed the resentment, the slow anger simmering beneath the surface, ever since his second or third day here. Now he began to appreciate how widespread it was, and how thin the veneer of daily life which hid it from the casual eye. Perhaps it was a fortunate chance that had put him here, if he seized it. But he must think of the right answer now.
“I’ve seen another side of the story,” he replied. “I know an Egyptian woman in London.” He must be careful not to make a mistake. If he was caught in a lie it might cost him very dearly. “Heard about the cotton industry…” He saw the Arab’s face darken. “She gave a good argument for factories here, not in England,” Pitt went on, feeling his skin prickle and smelling sweat and fear in the air. His hands were clammy.
“What’s your name?” the Arab asked abruptly.
“Thomas Pitt. What’s yours?”
“Musa. That’s enough for you,” came the reply.
Pitt turned to the Jew.
“Avram,” came the answer with a smile.
“Cyril,” said the Greek, also giving only his first name.
“What will they do to us next?” Pitt asked. Would it be possible for him to get a message to Trenchard? And even if he could, would Trenchard be willing to help him?
Avram shook his head. “They’ll either let you go because you’re English,” he replied, “or they’ll throw the book at you for betraying your own. What did you attack the police for, anyway? That’s hardly going to get cotton factories built here!” The smile did not fade from his lips, but his eyes were suspicious.
The other two watched, holding judgment by a thread.
Pitt smiled back. “I didn’t,” he admitted. “I tripped over a carpet.”
There was a moment’s silence, then Avram roared with laughter, and the second after the others joined in.
But judgment still hung in the balance. There was something here to learn, beyond just survival, and Pitt knew it. They might well think he had been placed with them to seek out the leaders of any potential trouble. There must be an equivalent to Special Branch in Alexandria. He must not ask questions, except about Ayesha, and perhaps Lovat, although Lovat had left Alexandria over twelve years ago. It was becoming increasingly important for him not only to learn the facts but to understand them, although he could not easily have justified it to Narraway, had he asked.
The three men were waiting for him. He must respond innocently.
“Tripped over a carpet,” Avram repeated, nodding slowly, the laughter still in his eyes. “They might believe you. Just possibly. Is your family important?”
“Not in the slightest,” Pitt answered. “My father was a servant on a rich man’s estate, so was my mother. They’re both dead now.”
“And the rich man?”
Pitt shrugged, memory sharp. “He’s dead too. But he was good to me. Educated me with his own son-to encourage him. Can’t be beaten by a servant’s boy.” He added that to explain his speech. They probably knew English well enough to be able to tell the difference between one class and another.
They were all watching him, Cyril with deep skepticism, Musa with more open dislike. Somewhere outside, a dog began to bark. In the room it seemed to grow even hotter. Pitt could feel the sweat trickling down his body.
“So why are you in Alexandria?” Musa asked, his voice low and a little hoarse. “You didn’t come just to see if we wanted cotton factories, and you didn’t get here for nothing.” That was an invitation to explain himself, and perhaps a warning.
Pitt decided to embroider the truth a little. “Of course not,” he agreed. “A British diplomat, ex-soldier, was murdered. He was stationed here for a while, twelve years ago. They think an Egyptian in London killed him. I’m paid to prove she didn’t.”
“Police!” Musa snarled, moving very slightly, as if he would get up.
“They pay police to prove who is guilty, not who isn’t!” Pitt snapped back at him. “At least they do in London. And no, I’m not police. If I were, don’t you think I’d have got out of here by now?”
“You were senseless when they carried you in,” Avram pointed out. “Who were you going to tell?”
“Isn’t there a guard out there?” Pitt inclined his head towards the door.
Avram shrugged. “Probably, although no one imagines we’re going to break out, more’s the pity.”
Pitt squinted up at the window.
Cyril stood up and went over to it, pulling experimentally at the central bar. He turned around and glared at Pitt, a slight sneer on his lip.
“You need brains to get out of here, not force,” Musa said to him. “Or money?” He raised his eyebrows questioningly.
Pitt fished in his shoe. Would it be worth spending what he had, if he still had it, to make allies? They probably knew nothing about Ayesha or Lovat, but they might help him learn-if there was anything worth learning. And he was beginning to doubt that.
Their eyes never moved from him; they barely blinked.
He pulled out about two hundred piasters-enough to pay for his room at the hotel for eight days.
“That’ll do!” Avram said instantly, and before Pitt could even consider a decision, the money was gone and Avram was banging on the door with his fists.
Musa nodded, his shoulders relaxing. “Good,” he said with satisfaction. “Yes-good.”
“That’s two hundred piasters!” The words were out of Pitt’s mouth before he thought. “I want something in return for it!”
Musa lifted his eyebrows. “Oh? And what would you like, then?”
Pitt’s brain raced. “Someone to help me get some real information about Lieutenant Edwin Lovat when he served here with the British army, twelve years ago. I don’t speak Arabic.”
“So you want fifty piasters of my time?” Musa concluded. “Well, you can’t have that if I’m in jail, now, can you?”
“I want a hundred and fifty piasters’ worth of somebody’s time,” Pitt responded. “Or we all stay here.”
Avram looked thoroughly entertained. “Are you making a bargain?” he asked with interest.
“I don’t know,” Pitt responded. “Am I?”
Avram looked at the window, then at the blind door. He raised his eyebrows in question to the others and said something in Arabic. There was a brief conversation. “Yes,” he said finally to Pitt. “Yes, you are.”
Pitt waited.
