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The rule is to only buy from reputable dealers who
have been recommended by someone like Mallisham.”
    “Yes, yes, that’s not the
point. This group was from Cambridge, all scholars, they know a
fake when they see one, anyway, these fakes were rather good, so
one of their members returned to the shop last night to confront
the dealer and the Cambridge chap hasn’t been seen since.”
    “Oh, I see, they are all
worried about him.”
    “Of course, they’re worried
about him. It looks like foul play. But that’s not the point of the
story either. The point is that Gerald Hayter looks dreadful.”
    “You may need to
elaborate.”
    “He looks seriously ill. He has
shed half his body weight. He is skin and bone. What’s more, he
didn’t even recognize me. I had to prompt him with my own name. I
was shocked.”
    “You know better than anyone
how tropical climates can affect delicate English constitutions and
cause loss of weight and temporary mental confusion.”
    “Gerald Hayter spent years in
the Hindu Kush. He has the constitution of an ox. Enteric fever and
dysentery regularly struck down entire platoons while he remained
immune. And what does temporary mental confusion actually mean?” he
challenged, still in shock at seeing his old comrade vastly changed
and not for the best.
    “A mental lapse, a brief
forgetfulness; we all get them when we are distracted. Even I had
one once. And you’ve probably changed quite a bit since he last saw
you. You’re fuller in the face. You have a few, er, grey hairs. And
he had a lot on his mind with the missing Cambridge chap. His mind
was elsewhere.”
    “Look,” he said severely. “I’m
not going to argue with you but I have a doctor’s instinct when it
comes to these things. There’s something seriously wrong with my
old friend but I cannot put my finger on it. I invited him to join
us for lunch. You don’t mind, do you?”
    “Of course not. I’m delighted
you did. You will be able to observe him in a more relaxed setting.
You will laugh at your fears by the time lunch is over.”

    Colonel Hayter was waiting for
them in the foyer of The Mena House, and he looked every bit as
dreadful as the doctor described.
    Feeble framed, painfully thin,
distrait, nervy, incoherent and forgetful. Twice in the space of
ten minutes he forgot the Countess’s name, and although many might
find the name difficult to pronounce, few could actually forget it
in its entirety.
    His voice wavered erratically
from practically inaudible to a high-pitched squawk. The beginnings
of some sentences were plagued by a paralysing stammer. His hands
shook so much he dropped his fork, knocked over the glass of water
and managed to spill half his lunch down the front of his already
badly-stained shirt. If he hadn’t recently suffered a nervous
breakdown, he was about to.
    They did not mention the top
secret investigation they were undertaking. They did not even touch
on the Boer War. They did, however, discuss the Lower Aswan Dam and
it was clear it was the root cause of much of his worry.
    “I have the Foreign Office
breathing down my neck,” he ranted, sweating profusely despite the
coolness of the dining room. “I get telegrams everyday about
possible acts of sabotage by Russian agents, German spies, and
Dutch collaborators. This morning I got a telegram to let me know
Mr Cassel’s advocate on Eastern affairs is arriving in Cairo later
this evening. I’ve been ordered to I give the man my full
co-operation and support. They must think I’m a tour guide! Or a
nanny! This damned dam project has taken over my life. It anything
goes wrong with it I bet Mr Gideon Longshanks will blame me.”
    “Is that the name of the
advocate? I’m sure he won’t blame you,” reassured the Countess in
dulcet tones. “You cannot possibly be held to account for the
success or failure of the dam.”
    “That’s what I tell myself but
then I get another telegram and a new set of urgent tasks to see
to. Do