more readily reach an understanding, the two of you alone. As I am sure you have noticed, a man facing two interlocutors is at something of a disadvantage: he feels he must assert himself. I am dressed in such a manner that I could be anyone or anything. You will do better on your own, particularly if you conciliate his good will with the lapis lazuli turban-brooch - a very striking cabochon with golden flecks that a Cainite cousin let me have, a merchant in Algiers, almost next to the pharmacy. He told me that there was another Cainite, one of the Beni Mzab, a calligrapher in the Vizier’s suite; and that is another reason why I suggest being a dragoman, no more, on this occasion.’
‘May I see it?’
‘I will show it you before we are received, when I pass over the consul’s letter of presentation: you will be able to look at it discreetly, since it is in a little European box that opens and closes, click.’
‘You wrote the letter, I believe?’
‘Yes: it is in Turkish and it states that your mission is of a private and confidential nature, undertaken at the request of the Ministry. There are the usual compliments at the beginning and at the end: they take up most of the paper.’
‘Very well. This is a rather more public form of intelligence service than I have ever experienced, and it will disqualify me for many other duties of the same nature: but to be sure, a very great deal is at stake.’
‘A very, very great deal.’
They had reached the level ground, and now they rode in silence until a Barbary partridge took noisily to the air almost under their noses, causing the horses to caper, but without much conviction after so wearing a day. ‘And surely those are palm-doves?’ said Stephen.
Dr Jacob had nothing to offer apart from ‘I am sure you are right.’ But turning in his saddle, he added, ‘Perhaps we should let the others catch up, so that we may make our entrance in a reasonably stylish manner.’
Reasonably stylish it was, the Turkish guards and their horses having a sense of occasion, and they rode through the intensively cultivated fields of the oasis, all brilliant green beneath the towering date-palms, round the central pool (with the inevitable moorhen) to a low, spreading house with barns and stables scattered about. ‘The Dey’s hunting lodge,’ said Jacob. ‘I was here once as a boy.’
An official and some grooms came out of the gateway, the official calling what Stephen took to be greetings: he also noticed a particular glance exchanged between Jacob and him - slight and fleeting, evident to no one who did not know Jacob very well and who did not happen to be looking in that direction - and then the grooms led horses and packmules into the stable-yard while Stephen and Jacob walked into the fore-court.
‘This is Ahmed ben Hanbal, the Vizier’s under-secretary,’ said Jacob. Stephen bowed: the under-secretary bowed, putting his hand to his forehead and heart. ‘The chief secretary is with the Dey. Shall we walk in?’
Inside the curious pillared patio, enclosed with elaborate wrought-iron screens, Jacob said something to Ahmed, who nodded and hurried away. ‘Here is the letter,’ said Jacob, passing it, ‘and here is the little Western box.’
Stephen clicked it open, gazed with admiration at the splendid blue, the size and shape of an egg cut in two lengthways: he smiled at Jacob, who said, ‘I shall leave you now. The - what shall I say? - the announcer will come through that door’ - nodding at it - ‘in a minute or two, and announce you to the Vizier.’
The minute tended to be a long one, and Stephen looked secretly at the stone again: he had rarely seen so true an azure; and the gold rim echoed the golden specks within the stone quite admirably. But a most unwelcome comparison welled up in his mind. Diana had possessed an extraordinary blue diamond - she was buried with it - a blue of an entirely different nature, of course, but he felt the familiar chill grip him, the sort of frigid indifference to virtually everything; and he welcomed the opening door. It showed a crosslooking very tall greybeard, his height increased by a lofty white turban, who beckoned imperiously and walked before him into a room where a middle-aged man in white clothes was sitting cross-legged on a low couch, smoking a hookah.
‘The Christian,’ said Greybeard, in a loud, official voice: he bowed very low and walked out backwards.
‘Good day to you, sir,’ said Stephen in French. ‘I have an introduction to His Highness the Dey from His Britannic Majesty’s consul in Algiers, but before delivering it to him and carrying out the rest of my mission, I thought it proper to pay my respects to you, and perhaps, if it is customary, to show you the letter. Since I have been told that you speak perfect French, I have left my interpreter behind.’
The Vizier rose, bowed, and said, ‘You are very welcome, sir. Pray sit down’ - patting the couch - ‘Like you, I do in fact speak French currently: it is my mother-tongue, since one of my father’s wives came from Marseilles. And it is indeed customary to show any document intended for the Dey to his chief minister. Pray smoke, if you feel so inclined, while I read it.’
Rarely had Stephen’s sense of politeness been put
