'We'll talk inside.'
The two Englishmen sat in front of the large desk at the British Embassy, the weary attache behind it still in a dressing gown, doing his best to stay awake. 'Yes,' he said, yawning. 'They'll be here any moment now, and if you don't mind my saying so, I hope there's substance in what you're telling us. MI-6 is seven ways into a dither here, and they're not too charmed by a couple of our own Brits robbing them of a few precious hours of sleep.'
'My friend Jack here was in the Grenadiers!' exclaimed Dickie, protectively. 'If he thinks there's something you should be told, I think you should pay attention. After all, what are we here for?'
'To make money for your firms?' offered the attache .
'Well, of course, that's a minor part of it,' said Dickie. 'But first we're Englishmen, and don't you forget it. We'll not see what's left of the Empire sink into oblivion. Right, Jack?'
'It already has,' said the attache , stemming another yawn.
'You see,' interrupted Jack. 'My friend Dickie here is in ferrous metals, but I'm in textiles, and I tell you the way that bugger was dressed—as opposed to the way he had dressed before—he's up to no good. The cloth not only determines the man but also suits his activities—been that way since the first flax was woven, probably right here in this part of the world, come to think of it—’
'MI-6 has the information,' broke in the attache with the dulled expression of a man numbed by repetition. 'They'll be here soon.'
They were. Within five seconds of the attache 's remark, two men in open shirts, both needing a shave and neither looking particularly pleasant, walked into the office. The second man carried a large manila envelope; the first man spoke. 'Are you gentlemen the reason we're here?' he asked, addressing Dickie and Jack.
'Richard Harding on my left,' said the attache . 'And John Preston on the right. May I leave?'
'Sorry, old boy,' replied the second man, approaching the desk and opening the envelope. 'We're here because you summoned us. That entitles you to stay.'
'You're too kind,' said the embassy man unkindly. 'However, I did not summon you, I merely relayed information that two British citizens insisted I relay. That entitles me to get some sleep insofar as I'm not in your line of endeavour.'
'Actually,' interrupted Dickie Harding, 'it was Jack here who insisted, but I've always felt that in times of crisis no stone or instinct should be overlooked, and Jack Preston—a former Grenadier, you know—has had some fine instincts… in the past.'
'Damn it, Dickie, it's got nothing to do with instincts, it's what he was wearing. I mean a chap could swelter in the winter in the Highlands under that material, and if the sheen on his shirt indicated silk or polyester, he'd positively suffocate. Cotton. Pure breathing cotton is the only cloth for this climate. And the tailoring of his ensemble, well, I told you—’
'Do you mind, sir?' His eyes briefly straying to the ceiling, the second man removed a pile of photographs from the envelope and thrust them between Preston and Harding, cutting off the dialogue. 'Would you look these over and see if there's anyone you recognize?'
Eleven seconds later the task was done. 'That's him!' cried Jack.
'Believe it is,' Dickie agreed.
'And you're both bonkers,' said the first man from MI-6. 'His name's MacDonald and he's a swizzling, society-boy drunk from Cairo. His wife's father owns the company he works for—a spare parts firm—and he's posted over here because he's a complete ass and the second-in-command at the Cairo branch runs the show. So much for instincts at this hour of the morning. Should I ask where you two spent the night?'
'Now, Jack, I did say you might be overreacting on rather superficial grounds—'
'A minute, please,' interrupted the second man from MI-6, picking up the enlarged passport photograph and studying it. 'A year or so ago one of our military staff stationed here contacted us and wanted to set up a meeting regarding an EE problem he thought was in the making.'
'A what?' asked the attache .
